


Eden, Nevada

by ChancellorGriffin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Brothels, Consensual Kink, Cults, Daddy Kink, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, Kink Exploration, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Periodic encounters with right-wing homophobes but the gays always win, Polyamory, Religion Kink, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 131,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27588394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: Marcus Kane has sex for a living.Love, however, is another story.Over a span of twenty-two years, he rises from the lowly role of concierge at the Paradise Hotel - the legal brothel owned by his parents - to its owner and manager, a pillar of the community with a staff of his own. But when the two most powerful forces of nature in a dusty one-horse Nevada town are a queer feminist sex mecca on one side, and a sinister fundamentalist cult on the other, nothing and no one is safe from the impact of their collision.
Relationships: Abby Griffin/Jake Griffin, Abby Griffin/Jake Griffin/Marcus Kane, Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Bellamy Blake/Abby Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Bellamy Blake/Marcus Kane, Jake Griffin/Marcus Kane, Luna/Niylah (The 100), Marcus Kane/Harper McIntyre, Marcus Kane/Raven Reyes, Marcus Kane/Roan
Comments: 69
Kudos: 81





	1. PROLOGUE: In Principio (“In the beginning”)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started this fic like two years ago for a kink meme where the prompt was basically "orgy where everybody fucks Abby," and then by the time the kink meme was over I hadn't actually gotten to the orgy, but then I was like "wait I have an idea for how to actually turn this into like A Real Story With a Plot" and I got very excited about exploring things like erotic theology and the workers' rights issues around how sex workers are paid at most brothels, and then of course everybody had to have a backstory, so basically now here we are, the first batch of chapters is 42,000 words and I STILL haven't gotten to the orgy.
> 
> I wouldn't forgive me, either.
> 
> I CAN, however, promise that A) there is a ton of smut in many combinations in here already, B) when we get to the orgy it will all be worth it, and C) happy sexy endings for everybody because tbh fuck canon. In the meantime, because I am me, you guys would not BELIEVE the research rabbit holes I've gone down for this one, or how much I now know about legal brothels in Nevada. 
> 
> "okay but is this going to be like how you started a bunch of fics in like 2017 and promised you'd finish them and we're all still waiting to find out who murdered Jaha in the Agatha Christie AU and if they're ever going to find Clarke in 'Promised Land'" THIS ONE IS DIFFERENT I PROMISE I HAVE AN OUTLINE I HAVE A PLAN I HAVE A 91-PAGE GOOGLE DOC I'M IN IT TO WIN IT
> 
> One content warning before we begin: because the sort of feminist hippie fantasyland of Kane's magical sex paradise involves exploring ways that sex, sensuality, and consensual kink can be ways people heal from past trauma, there are periodic references in several characters' backstories to incidents from parental abuse to sexual assault. I spent a lot of time trying to make sure I was addressing this responsibly, because it's not something I usually write, but it felt important for many of these characters. It comes up most frequently with Kane's father and with the Blakes, but none of it is explicit; there won't be, for example, a scene actually DEPICTING a sexual assault on the page. It's more to do with how it shapes the way the characters exist in relation to themselves, their own bodies, their therapists, their sexuality, and each other. Or, to put it more directly - in order for this to be a story about the healing power of sex, people need things to heal FROM.
> 
> oh also - this one is going to go to many filthy places and Kane will either have sex, or it will be referenced that at some point in the past he HAS had sex, with pretty much every character except Octavia. He has to. It's his job to have sex and it's my job to describe it to you. We are both merely as God made us. 
> 
> I did consider not posting this fic here, or even publicly owning that it was mine on the kink meme because it's sooooooooooo trashy, but I've reached a real level of "fuck it" with all of that, so here we go. If you keep reading from here, just remember that I told you in advance exactly what this ride was going to be.
> 
> ALL RIGHT TRASH FAM LET'S GO

_It begins like a fairy tale._

_(Things always happen in threes in fairy tales.)_

_Once upon a time - more specifically, twenty-two_ _years ago, on August thirteenth, at five o’clock in the afternoon -in the baking heat of a dry, airless Nevada summer, the three people who were destined to change Marcus Kane’s life forever all arrived in the town of Eden and set foot on its dusty soil at the exact same time._

_They did not arrive together, or come from the same place. They knew neither each other nor Marcus. There would seem, on the surface, to be nothing linking any of them to each other. Somewhere, in the place where our fates are woven, a wild and shattering love story was already being spun which would someday bind them all together; but none of them knew their role in it yet._

_The man crossed the city limits first. At 4:49 p.m., a big white van veered off the freeway exit and rumbled down the hill toward Main Street, past the diner and the market and the gas station and the elementary school, and turned left onto Sequoia, toward the decrepit shell of a building which was once Our Lady of the Garden Catholic Church. The red “FOR SALE” sign had disappeared from the lawn out front two days ago, though nobody seemed to know anything about it until the day the van arrived. It had papered-over windows and no license plates and the side door said “DAUGHTERS OF EVE” in painted-on blue letters. No one who saw the van driving by and read those words thought anything about it, in particular, at the time.  
_

_The child arrived second. At 4:54 p.m., the Greyhound express from Las Vegas rolled creakily up to the dusty bus depot on the west end of town, and the dark-eyed little boy with the tousled mop of black curls hopped up to stand on the seat, pressing his freckled nose against the grimy window and staring in puzzlement at the barren landscape outside. “Honey, sit down,” sighed his exhausted mother beside him, but the boy didn’t listen. He was too busy scanning the horizon, wondering where they’d hidden all the tall buildings. He had never lived in a city without tall buildings. Eden looked more like the picture of the Sahara Desert in the kids’ encyclopedia he had stolen from the library than it did a place where real people lived. He did not know how to feel about the fact that this was home now._

_The woman passed the threshold of Eden last, though she will enter the story first. At 4:59 p.m., a zippy vintage convertible roared into a parking lot and screeched to a halt, its two passengers howling with giddy laughter. The woman unbuckled her seatbelt, tugged the green silk scarf from her hair, and shook free her silky brown tresses as she opened the passenger side door of the red Mustang and stepped out._

_And then it happened, the clock striking five, three pairs of boots landing on the dusty ground of Eden at the exact same time._

_On the dead brown lawn of Our Lady of the Garden, a pair of dingy work boots, steel-capped, faintly menacing. On the sidewalk outside the bus depot, a child’s pair of merry blue cowboy boots, purchased on sale, whose small owner loved them so intensely he refused at first to take them off even for bed. And on the winding, exotic, floral-scented entrance path to the hotel lobby, a pair of sleek black knee-high stilettos, purchased to accompany a little red plaid skirt she knew her new husband would find irresistibly sexy._

_The dust that swirls endlessly over the streets of Eden, the soft golden desert dust you can never entirely shake out of your hair or off the soles of your feet, touched all three of them at the exact same moment, and that was the beginning. A desert baptism._

_There should have been an earthquake, at least. A bolt of lightning._ Something. 

_But nothing happened. Not even to Marcus, not yet. It was just another ordinary day._

_It would be twenty-two years before the four of them - the man who bought the church, the boy with freckles, the new bride, and Marcus Kane - finally found themselves in the same room all at once. If you had told them, then, how it would all come to pass, not one of them would have believed you._

_Marcus knew none of this. He would laugh, a little bitterly perhaps, if someone reached back to him from the future and told him he would one day be the center of gravity at which so many people’s stories would converge. He would tell you that he was not important enough to be the center of anything._

_Like a prince in a dark fairy tale. Cursed by a wicked king to believe he was only ordinary, waiting for true love to arrive and break the spell._

_At five p.m. on that August day, at the moment when his life was being entirely rewritten by destiny without his knowledge, Marcus Kane was making his way down the front staircase to the reception desk, smoothing his hair back and straightening his tie. This was his first day as a concierge, and these were today’s first new guests, and he wanted to do everything right so as not to disappoint his parents._

_The door opened just as he passed through the foyer, and the woman in the black boots stepped lightly across the threshold, the dust of Eden swirling in the hot summer breeze around her feet._

_“Hi,” she said, with an irresistible smile, and “Hi,” said her brand-new husband as he stepped inside behind her, and all Marcus said, in a perfectly ordinary voice to these perfectly ordinary people on this perfectly ordinary day, was:_

_“Welcome to the Paradise Hotel.”_


	2. Paradisum Voluptatis (“The paradise of pleasure”)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And the Lord God had planted a paradise of pleasure from the beginning: wherein he placed man whom he had formed. And the Lord God took man, and put him into the paradise of pleasure, to cultivate and tend it. 
> 
> Then God said: It is not good for man to be alone: let us make him a companion like unto himself . . . They went naked in paradise, and thought it no shame.”
> 
> \--Book of Genesis, Douay-Rheims translation

**SIX YEARS AGO**

It did not rain, the day of the funeral.

Abby had almost hoped it would. Everything would be muddier and messier and uglier and more difficult, of course, but at least the world would match her mood. The fact that the sun was shining in a clear blue sky felt like a slap in the face.

Clarke had never looked lovelier or more composed, and this felt cruel too. She stood ramrod-straight beside her mother, hair neatly pinned back into a knot at the nape of her neck, and her new black velvet sheath with its matching satin jacket fitted her like armor. (She didn't own any black clothes before this week. They'd had to go buy this. Mother/daughter trips to the mall, another precious memory now poisoned, maybe forever.) She wore the pearls Jake gave her two months ago for her sixteenth birthday, and a pair of diamond studs she had borrowed from Abby, and looked so much older than her years; she had aged a whole lifetime since that day two weeks ago when Abby had gotten the phone call. It was a Saturday morning; she should be home, in her pajamas, curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and her sketchbook, messy blonde curls tied up in the same scrunchie she had slept in.

She was still a kid. She should _look_ like a kid.

Instead, she had the reserved, silent poise of a widow from an old Hollywood movie, and there was something grotesque and wrong about it all. Grief had turned Clarke Griffin into an adult years and years too early.

Something else the universe had taken from Abby Griffin which she did not think she could ever forgive.

They stood side by side in the wet grass, as an endless queue of friends and family and coworkers and neighbors and seemingly everyone in the entire state of Vermont filed by one by one to clasp their hands and say one of the same three or four standard funeral phrases. It was grating, but at least it kept Abby from turning around. In front of her lay the rolling green hills of the cemetery, bisected by a winding road now jam-packed with cars, and a mob of black-clad people slowly making their way down toward it. Behind her, there was a black hole in the middle of the earth, a person-sized rectangle whose gravity was so powerful she was half afraid it would swallow her up too.

“Mom?” Clarke whispered, as a lull in the receiving line left them briefly alone for a moment. “Who are you looking for?”

Startled out of her thoughts, Abby turned to face her daughter. “What are you talking about, baby?”

“You keep looking over everyone’s shoulders. And staring down at the road. Is there someone who’s supposed to be here who isn’t here?”

_Yes._

“No,” she said, squeezing Clarke’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing that. I’m just . . . a little scattered today.”

“No, you don’t have to apologize, I just wondered who you were missing.”

And she hadn’t, really, been missing him - not consciously - until that moment. She hadn’t known who she was looking for until it became clear that he wasn’t coming.

There was no way he could have known what happened, because Jake and Abby had not spoken to him in sixteen years, and he was practically a whole continent away. But still, somehow, against all probability, that tiny flickering thing inside him that had made them wonder if he was a little bit magic had never worn off, and some desperate, hopeful voice had been whispering _maybe, maybe, maybe,_ in the back of Abby's thoughts all day long - loudly enough to keep her off-balance, but too quiet to be consciously heard.

But now he was there, in her thoughts, and could not be driven from them. His strong square shoulders in that sleek black suit, the first time she had met him. His warm dark eyes, his comfortingly gentle presence. She imagined him standing on one side of her, holding her hand, Clarke on the other, the three of them a united wall of grief, and it didn’t feel like infidelity; it felt like what Jake would have wanted for her. What she would have wanted for him, if the positions were reversed, and she had gone first.

But Marcus Kane was in Nevada, and by now had surely forgotten she existed, and the part of her life that she had shared with him and Jake was over. No one would ever touch her like that again.

“It’s nothing,” she said to Clarke, squeezing her hand, and was careful not to let her eyes drift to give her away again, after that.

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO**

_“When the time gets right,  
I'm gonna pick you up,  
And take you far away  
From trouble, my love . . . ” _

The fact that he could not sing had never stopped Jake Griffin from trying.

He’d planned the itinerary; she’d surprised him with both the rented convertible, and the road trip mix CD. They’d whipped down the vast expanse of desert road belting Poison and Queen and Van Morrison and had now moved on to Tom Petty as they roared along Route 66, which meant Jake could now cross one of his ultimate life goals off the list.

_“OH, I AWAIT THE DAYYYYYYY”_

“Babe, not _one_ of those was the right note -”

_“GOOD FORTUNE COMES OUR WAYYYYYYYYYYYYY”_

“Jake, I swear to God -”

_“AND WE’LL RIDE DOWN THE KING’S HIGHWAYYYYY-AYYYYYYY-AYYYYYYYYYY”_

“You’re really lucky that I love you!” Abby shouted at him over the din of wind and motor and off-key tenor screaming. “Because you don’t look nearly as cool as you think you do right now!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he hollered back. “I’ve never felt cooler in my life!”

Abby laughed and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks, behind the huge Jackie O sunglasses she’d chosen to match the vintage scarf in her hair. (She might have been a decidedly casual bride, but she wasn’t going to arrive at wherever Jake had arranged for them to stay tonight with a bird's nest on the top of her head.)

Jake and Abby had moved in together six months after they’d begun dating, and that was five years ago. In the move from dingy student apartment to slightly-more-respectable one-bedroom to rented house with actual yard, they’d slowly accumulated the trappings of adulthood. Decent sheets and towels. Furniture that wasn’t from a garage sale. Real kitchen knives. So they’d vetoed the idea of a wedding shower and a mountain of stuffy gifts, and just told everyone to bring a bottle of liquor to stock their bar. They’d also vetoed the idea of material wedding gifts for each other. “What if instead of stuff,” Jake had suggested, “we give each other experiences? After the wedding is over and it’s just us. You surprise me with something, and I’ll surprise you. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Abby, who immediately went upstairs to price out the cost of renting a vintage car for the weekend so Jake - raised in the Pacific Northwest where it rained all the time, and now a resident of the East Coast where it snowed all the time - could live out his adolescent sports car dreams for a day or two. 

Jake’s surprise was much more cryptic. He’d been thrilled when Abby had handed him the brochure from the car dealership and a map indicating how close to Route 66 they were.

“Perfect,” he’d said, a little wickedly. “Since we’ll be going that direction anyway.”

“Why?”

“That’s where _your_ surprise is. We’re going to Eden, Nevada.”

“What’s in Eden, Nevada?”

“A place called the Paradise Hotel.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s . . . a kind of bed-and-breakfast,” he said evasively, tone faintly edged with mischief, and that was the last thing he said about it, no matter how many times she asked.

The wedding had taken place yesterday, at the chapel in Caesar’s Palace, the exact right mix of tacky and respectable for Jake’s tastes. For her part, Abby had been so busy with exams, and had so little interest in the fuss and drama of wedding planning, that she’d been entirely content to let him take care of everything. They had both lost their parents young - something they’d bonded over when they first met in college - so there were no mothers of the bride to protest. It was a nondenominational service, only the bare minimum of God to get the point across, and the whole thing was over in fifteen minutes. Abby wore a sundress and no makeup. Jake wore shorts. Ten minutes after the “I do’s” were said, the whole noisy crowd was comfortably ensconced in an underwater-themed hotel bar with live mermaids swimming behind them in a floor-to-ceiling tank. Jake’s brother over-tipped the host so generously that one of the mermaids swam up and pressed a purple-lipsticked kiss at him against the glass. They ate shrimp cocktail and drank neon confections with elaborate fruit garnishes, and then everyone adjourned to the roulette table, where Jake confidently announced he had learned a "foolproof" "system" to "beat the house" and then promptly lost a hundred and forty dollars. Meanwhile, two of the bridesmaids slipped off to the ladies room together and returned half an hour later with hair disheveled and bodices askew. Then, after several more cocktails, a group outing to the craps table so Jake could lose some more money, and a round of chocolate lava cakes, Abby dismissed her friends with a wave, took her husband firmly by the hand, and announced it was time for them to go upstairs and fuck, which they did.

All in all, a perfect Las Vegas wedding.

_“I DON’T WANNA END UP_   
_IN A ROOM ALL ALONE_   
_DON’T WANNA END UP SOMEONE_   
_THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOWWWWWWWWWWW”_

Jake was still singing horribly as they sped past the sign marked “Eden, Nevada: Population 3,243,” zipped through the small Main Street area which looked like a time capsule from the 1950’s, and wove back out again into the desert toward what appeared to be a shimmering mirage in the distance - a fortress of white stucco, thick with pink and purple flowering vines, tropical foliage visible on the other side of the high walls.

“What the hell is that?” Abby shouted over the din. “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?”

Jake ignored her.

_“LOVER, I’LL AWAIT THE DAYYYYYYYYYY_   
_GOOD FORTUNE COMES OUR WAYYYYYY_   
_AND WE’LL RIDE DOWN THE KING’S HIGHWAYYYYYY-AYYYYYYY-AYYYYYYYYYYYY”_

An enormous wrought-iron gate swung open as their car approached, and closed behind them as they glided slowly through what appeared to be a jungle, before emerging into a small parking lot near the entrance to the main building, a sprawling hacienda-style palace with a blue and gold tiled fountain splashing cheerfully in the entryway.

“What is this place?” Abby asked again, as they pulled their suitcases out of the trunk and wheeled them across the colorful mosaic pathway, through the foyer, and into the lobby.

“I told you,” he said. “It’s a kind of bed and breakfast.”

“A kind of -” she started to say, but he shushed her as they stepped inside, where some kind of butler or something hovered beside the door, looking down and away from them as though trying to make himself invisible. They both greeted him, and he greeted them, and they made their way inside, and then Abby slowly began to take in her surroundings, putting two and two together.

The tasteful, yet blatantly erotic art filling the lobby - nude sculptures, Renaissance paintings behind the reception desk, rococo furniture with curving, undulating shapes. The pair of attractive young women, clad in elegant black, arrayed artfully on the stairs. The paperwork she could now see in Jake’s hands as he fished through his carry-on bag, which included the medical forms he’d told her he needed but refused to explain why, handwaving it away as something about insurance for the marriage license.

The elegant blue-and-white china bowl on the reception desk which Abby reached into, expecting candy, before realizing it was full of Paradise Hotel-branded condoms.

So, the Paradise wasn’t _not_ a bed and breakfast – the breakfast was quite good, they learned later, and the beds excellent – but it was also very definitely a brothel.

“Jacob Nathaniel Griffin,” she hissed under her breath, through a forced smile as they approached the reception desk. _“What the absolute fuck.”_

He ignored her. “Hi,” he said to the warm, grandmotherly-looking woman beaming at them from behind the reception desk. “Are you Mrs. Kane? We spoke on the phone.”

“The Griffins,” she said happily. “Of course. Congratulations, my dears. I hope your wedding was lovely. We’re thrilled that you’ve chosen to spend part of your honeymoon with us.”

“We’re thrilled to be here,” said Jake, blithely taking over the task of doing all the talking, since his wife beside him was still completely speechless. “It’s a real Nevada landmark. We’re looking forward to the experience.”

He handed her the paperwork, and there was the usual business of credit cards and keys, and the sheer ordinariness of it all was so surreal to Abby that she felt like she was hallucinating. “Your room is ready, and once you’ve selected a concierge, they’ll take your bags up for you. I’ll show you into the parlor after we’re finished here, to go over the menu and the rules a bit first, and of course I’m happy to answer any questions. Would either of you care for iced tea?”

“Iced tea sounds fantastic,” said Jake. “We had a very long, hot, dusty drive. Doesn’t iced tea sound nice, Abby?”

“I’ll go fetch some from the kitchen,” Mrs. Kane said, “and I’ll meet you in the parlor, just there.” She gestured to a small seating area through a pair of glass doors, then disappeared into another room.

Abby pulled her husband into the parlor, out of earshot of the black-clad staff (concierges, she now assumed, lined up presumably to audition for them) and rounded on her husband to hiss at him with a combination of emotions which included - but was not limited to - exasperation, embarrassment, out-and-out fury, and just enough amusement to keep herself from getting back in the car and driving off to abandon him there.

“What in _God’s name_ were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, what happens in Vegas . . .”

“You are _impossible.”_

“It’s just for one night,” he said, handing her the elegant linen cardstock rectangle containing a dizzying list of erotic services, some of which Abby had never heard of before in her life. “We don’t even have to do anything, if you don’t want to. We can just watch.”

“Watch what?”

“It’s like half a brothel and half a sex club,” he explained. “And half a fancy spa resort kind of place. Some people just come here for the massages and facials. _Regular_ facials,” he hastily amended, seeing her raised eyebrow. “And some people come here for the late-night shows; there's a playroom downstairs where the professionals do all kinds of scenes with each other, it changes from night to night. Or the guests can just watch each other.”

Abby looked down at the menu. “Apparently tonight’s scene is ‘MMF,’” she said. “What does that mean?”

“A threesome with two men and a woman. How do you not know this? You love porn.”

“I do love porn, but I don’t know how to like . . . _navigate_ porn. There’s too many options and a lot of it sucks. It feels like you already have to _know_ what you want to even know where to _find_ what you want.”

“This is going to be extremely educational for you, then.”

“Is that why I'm here? Live-action sex ed class?"

“Live a little, baby,” he said with that cheeky grin that always took all the fight out of her. "Don't be such a doctor about it."

Abby's retort to this was hastily silenced as Mrs. Kane reentered with two tall glasses of iced tea and a plate of lemon cookies.

“Can I answer any questions for you?” said the older woman helpfully.

“Not at the moment, Mrs. Kane, thank you,” said Abby politely, smiling up at her, and Vera smiled back.

"Then I'll take you through the rules and the menu before sending you on your way. And do call me Vera, my dears."

From that moment on, Abby began to fall under the Paradise’s spell. It was impossible not to like Vera Kane, and equally impossible to avoid at least a _little_ healthy curiosity about the menu she was currently holding, and the many terms on it she didn't know. (What was "shibari"? What was "mommy kink"?) So she gradually resigned herself to not chugging down her blissfully refreshing iced tea, grabbing a handful of cookies and booking it back out the door, as the voice of reason in the back of her mind had been nudging her to do, and sat back in her chair, which was how Jake, beside her, knew he'd won. He turned to her with a grin of triumph on his face as she sighed in resignation and handed him back the menu. 

_Good Lord,_ she thought. _What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?_

* * * * *

Vera Kane had a keen eye for the comfort level of a guest. Some people arrived knowing exactly what they wanted - whether they were a regular, or they’d arrived having done thorough research on the website, or had very specific tastes. Others were less certain, and needed to get their feet under them a bit first. 

This was where the personal concierges came in.

Vera’s role, aside from being the Paradise Hotel’s co-owner and its true visionary, was to put visitors at their ease. She made awkward transactions like the exchange of STD test results or questions about kink boundaries feel chatty and conversational, and she had the air of someone who had seen everything and was therefore impossible to shock. There was no one better able to navigate first impressions, handle the paperwork, and settle all the fine print.

Once a guest was checked in, however, Vera tended to recuse herself, leaving them in the hands of the concierges, and this was where the erotic journey truly began. The staff of the Paradise was a bevy of gorgeous and sensually-clad people of all ages and genders whose job was to take charge of all a patron’s needs - erotic or otherwise - during their stay. They would get to know the guest, learn what they liked and disliked, ascertain their boundaries, their orientations, their kinks, their secret fascinations, and custom-tailor the perfect fantasy for them.

There were three on offer tonight - two women and a man - and the choice was theirs. Both Abby and Jake found themselves slightly intimidated by the senior female concierge, a rather vixen-y blonde in her late twenties named Diana, wearing a slinky black dress with a plunging V-shaped neckline which highlighted a pair of flawless breasts. Abby’s first choice was the woman standing beside her, a slight, pretty, dark-haired woman named Callie with a sweet ingenue smile and a full-skirted black dress that looked straight out of a Grace Kelly film. Between the two women stood a tall young man in a fitted black suit, with a solemn face and thick black hair, who caught Jake’s eye immediately.

Unable to come to a consensus, they finally decided that the only option available to them was to solve this dispute the way they solved all disputes: namely, three rounds of Rock Paper Scissors.

Jake and Abby duked it out as Diana leaned rather boredly against the wall, Callie bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Marcus stared blankly at the young couple sitting at the parlor table (were they seriously Rochambeau-ing over this? Who the hell _were_ these people?), until finally, Jake emerged triumphant, paper having beaten rock in the final round.

Thus it was that Marcus Kane, on his first night as a concierge, obtained his first clients.

Abby was not so sure about him. “He looks like an asshole,” she whispered to Jake under her breath as the dark-haired young man departed up the stairs with their bags. “He hasn’t smiled once.”

“We’ll crack him,” said Jake, casually stuffing his pockets with condoms from the bowl. “We’re irresistible.”

“If he’s a dick, can we swap him for a girl?”

“Baby, you can have anything you want.”

Callie and Diana had evaporated as though into thin air, and so had Vera, so there was nothing left to do but follow the young man up the sweeping, curved staircase, down the hall, and into their room.

Jake had clearly ordered a honeymoon package of some kind, because there was a bottle of champagne already on ice, a scattering of sweet-smelling tropical blossoms on top of the decadent, cloud-like bed heaped with clean white linens, and, inside the bathroom, a Jacuzzi big enough for four people was already full and bubbling away.

Marcus set down their bags and closed the door behind him, and suddenly the whole room felt charged with a peculiar electricity.

“How would you like to begin?” Marcus asked them, a little frostily, lingering beside the door as though expecting to be ordered to leave again, and Abby wondered with a pang of guilt if he’d overheard her asking her husband to switch.

But Jake was more than equal to the task, and grinned back at him. “We’re new at this,” he said. “Totally open to suggestions. How would _you_ like to begin?”

No one, in all his life, had ever asked Marcus Kane what he wanted.

He suddenly became someone entirely different, after that.

* * * * *

Prostitution is not legal in Las Vegas, contrary to popular belief. Due to years of peculiarly specific legal back-and-forth, only Nevada counties with populations under 700,000 are permitted to open a licensed brothel. The handful still in operation are scattered around the state in small towns, and often exist at odds with the residents of their community, leading to clashes with law enforcement, moralizing citizens, and local businesses.

It had been like that in Eden, once. But it wasn’t anymore.

Harry Kane had moved to town and opened this property in the late 1970s, under the name “The Lusty Lady’s Gentleman’s Club.” This immediately divided the town of Eden into two warring camps, based on who found what more offensive: the prostitution, or the grating double apostrophe of “Lady’s Gentleman’s” on Harry's eyesore of a neon sign.

A few years later, he married a waitress from the Shamrock Bar & Grill - the dive bar on the outskirts of town a quarter mile from the brothel - who turned out to be better at his job than he was, something he shamelessly exploited even though he never forgave her for it. 

Harry was broadly perceived by the community to be an unsavory, bad-tempered and profoundly unpleasant man; but these days, he was so occupied with the business of drinking himself to death that his wife and son rarely saw him. Over the past few years, Vera had gently, gradually begun to loosen her husband’s chokehold grip on the Paradise, and turned it into something quite different indeed. 

She had begun by changing the appallingly stupid name, with its cringe-inducing double apostrophe, and taking down the neon sign, endearing her to the town of Eden almost overnight. She’d then proceeded to throw out her husband’s shoddy bookkeeping, draconian fees, and penny-pinching around the property. Gone were the days where staff had to purchase their own props, pay for their own medical care, and hand over 40% of their hourly rate to the house. Vera broke with Nevada brothel owner tradition and hired all her workers as salaried employees. Benefits, insurance, sick leave, overtime. She reasoned, very sensibly, that in an industry this dependent upon personal relationships, investing in keeping her employees happy and retaining the ones who did well was a necessary start to restructuring the business. 

And she was right. 

Vera, the Griffins learned later, was not a sex worker and never had been; she was simply an excellent businesswoman, guided as much by empathy as by her fiscal bottom line. She had managed, against all odds, to transform the Paradise from a seedy establishment the town refused to claim - and which the clientele she aspired to would not go near - into a warm, hospitable resort offering a wide range of services, erotic and otherwise, which slowly grew to possess a gloss of something almost like respectability. Where Harry had approached this business as a money-making scheme, Vera envisioned it as a haven to nurture body and soul. After a few years in her hands, the place had transformed completely; now the locals came here too. While it might still earn you some playful teasing to tell your friends over drinks that you had booked a room at the Paradise for your wedding anniversary or fortieth birthday, you'd be greeted by just as many people singing the praises of their famous four-course weekend mimosa brunch. And the more these services paid for themselves, the more expansive the Kanes' empire grew. For whatever reason - compensation from the universe, perhaps, for the brutal misery of her marriage - everything Vera touched seemed to turn to gold.

The concierge program was her newest brainchild, a way of curating a patron's erotic journey while helping her most seasoned staff get high-level customer service experience on their CVs. Marcus was her assistant on the back end, and he was excellent at his job. He knew every employee’s particular skill set and boundaries, what they did best and what they preferred never to do. His mother had passed on to him her keen business acumen; his father had made him hyper-intuitive to other people, in the way only the child of a violent, unpredictable parent can be. There was no one better at reading subtle body language or signals. Most days he stood quietly beside his mother at the reception desk, swiping credit cards and printing receipts and processing medical release forms, and because he spoke so little and seemed to make himself so very nearly invisible, guests rarely noticed him. This left him free to observe. He would watch people interact with each other and listen to their conversations as they perused the menu, observing their microexpressions and reading the meanings between every line. Then he would return to the upstairs office and cross-reference his instincts with the staff schedule and find everyone their perfect match.

He knew when someone was bi-curious, but so tentative they weren’t even ready to say the word. He knew when a lifelong top had an unspoken desire to be dominated, and which vanilla married couples were exploring breath play at home and wanted to go further with a professional. He could effortlessly spot the enthusiastic voyeurs who wanted only to make themselves comfortable in the playroom with their sex toy of choice and watch everybody else, without being touched themselves. He knew when a woman was carrying trauma that meant rough sex was an absolute no-go, and when a woman was carrying trauma that meant rough sex was the catharsis she’d come here seeking.

He was very, very, very good. Even his father, grudgingly, had admitted it. But for years, he had refused to let his son work as a concierge himself. “Not after the way you embarrassed me in Amsterdam,” he would hiss savagely, silencing Marcus with a hot red flush of miserable shame. “Don’t want you anywhere near the clients. Can’t trust you not to fuck it up.”

Marcus had grown up at the Paradise, and his father had groomed him for escort work from his adolescent years on. He had been beautiful as a boy, with the deep brown eyes fringed in thick black lashes, the lush dark hair, the full rosy lips, of a pre-Raphaelite painting. He was to be his father’s prized commodity. But when a wealthy European client, just waiting for the boy to come of age, had purchased Marcus’ virginity at an exorbitant price, the weekend in Amsterdam had . . . not gone well. 

(He did not speak of Amsterdam. It was the worst three nights of his life, and his father had forbidden him - belt in hand, so Marcus knew he meant it - from ever breathing a word about it to his mother. He managed the trauma triggers as best he could - no whiskey near him, not ever; no black sheets on the hotel's beds - but sometimes the word itself was enough, and something as innocuous as a travel show or beer commercial could force him to bolt out of the room, fleeing down the back stairs and out into the quiet of the gardens or the desert hills beyond, gulping huge aching deep breaths until his lungs were burning, waiting for the nausea to pass.)

But Harry was currently knee-deep in a pitcher of Budweiser down the road at the Shamrock. George, the proprietor of the dingy roadside motel next to the bar, was friendly with Vera, and when Harry inevitably got tossed out at closing time, George would sigh, and grab him by the elbow, and shove him into whatever empty motel room hadn’t been cleaned by housekeeping yet, and order him to sleep it off. They would not see him until sometime tomorrow. And so, because he was not here to tell her not to, and because Thelonious was out of town this week, Vera had gently suggested, if Marcus didn’t mind, that he might make himself available for that nice young married couple in case they preferred a male concierge. 

No one had been more surprised than Marcus when they actually chose him . . . even if technically it had only been the luck of the draw of Rock Paper Scissors.

* * * * *

They began with a bath, both because they had dust all over them, and because they did not have a tub at home, so it seemed a shame to waste this one. When Jake asked Marcus, again, what he wanted, he murmured that he wanted to touch Abby’s hair. He did not know why he had said this, and she could not stop laughing apologetically about what a mess it was; but once it had tumbled free from the elastic and he was running it through his fingers, everything stopped being funny.

Marcus undressed them both with a quiet intensity, hands gentle and cool on their sun-parched skin. He unhooked Abby’s bra and unbuckled Jake’s belt like they were sacred, solemn duties, and every piece of clothing he removed was set down carefully on the bench beside the dresser. 

Jake was greedier. Once he and Abby were naked, he began tugging impatiently at the other man’s suit, yanking off his tie and jacket and flinging them onto the floor. 

No one had ever wanted Marcus so badly that there wasn’t time to be proper about clothes.

For a long moment, after that, they all just looked at each other. Marcus drank them in hungrily - Jake’s thick, slumbering cock, shadowed with golden blond hair; Abby’s soft full breasts, with dusky rose nipples, areolas already pebbled with desire. And they gazed at him just as ravenously - the slope of his shoulders, the taut power of his arms and legs, and the frankly unbelievable length of cock between his thighs.

“Well,” murmured Abby breathlessly. “Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?”

The bathroom had thick curtains to block out the light, and flickering candles on the counter beside the sink, so even though it was not fully dark out yet, it felt cozy and secluded inside, once Marcus closed the door and climbed into the bubbling, aromatic water with them. “Let me wash you,” he murmured, taking a wooden tray from beside the tub with a sponge and several bottles of luxury bath goods, and Abby thought this must be what it felt like to be Cleopatra. He bathed her with deep, focused attentiveness, lathering every inch of her body and hair until she was pink and clean, and every touch of his skin against hers made her melt and shiver. He teased her with the soft sponge, soaping the downy hair of her cunt, the delicate skin beneath her breasts, the soles of her feet, drawing every nerve ending into heightened awareness, and by the time he finished she was shaking. But watching him do the same to Jake - wringing out the sponge to trickle hot, sudsy droplets down the crevice between his pectoral muscles, bending him over to knead scented bath wash into the hard curves of his ass - seemed to amplify every sensation even further, leaving her so wet she had to work very hard to keep from coming right there.

Marcus let them return the favor, then, though he seemed surprised they wanted to; he, after all, had not arrived here after hours driving through the desert in a convertible, so there was no practical necessity for it. But it was a way to explore his body, to touch him in all the places they wanted to touch him, that felt like a safe place to begin. So Abby rubbed bath gel between her palms until it bubbled, and massaged it into the tight knots of Marcus’ powerful shoulders (he was oddly tense, she observed distantly, for someone who had orgasms for a living) while Jake knelt behind him and lathered his thick black hair; and soon they weren’t even pretending the touches had a purpose anymore, they were just touching him because they wanted to, because he was beautiful, and he was touching them back, and then they were just three warm bodies floating together in a hot, fragrant tangle of arms and legs and lips and tongues and breath. 

“May I?” Marcus eventually whispered, and they both nodded _yes, God, yes, fuck yes, please,_ and so he did. He found the soft folds of Abby’s labia with one hand, and the sensitive underside of Jake’s cock head with the other, and caressed them with delicate fingertips until both of them were gasping. He did not let them come, but edged them slowly and deliberately until time seemed to stop, until their hunger - for him, for each other, for any kind of release - began to overtake their bodies, and it all became a blur. 

The champagne appeared, at some point. Some of it she drank out of a glass, some of it she licked off Marcus Kane’s chest. A bubbling droplet slid down toward his nipple; she caught it with her tongue, inadvertently flicking the tender flesh, and he groaned her name, and the sound made her suddenly voracious. It felt insanely decadent to make Marcus fall apart in front of her, and she wanted to stay here forever, teasing his oak-brown nipple with the tip of her tongue and feeling his fists tighten in her wet hair, watching below the surface of the water as her husband’s hand moved up and down on the shaft of Marcus’ beautiful cock. But he was not being paid just to receive their favors, and soon turned the tables on them both, making Abby cry out in pleasure as his mouth found the hollow between her breasts, and drawing rough, gasping cries out of Jake by stroking the opening of his ass with gentle fingertips, before moving aside to let husband and wife find each other.

When Jake's mouth crashed into her own, Abby moaned into the kiss with both agony and relief. "Make her come," she heard Marcus breathe into Jake's ear. "Give her your fingers, Jake. Show me how she likes it. Make her wet for us."

Something in that "us", in the image of these two beautiful men fucking her together, made her cunt ache, and the delicious pressure of Jake's fingers inside her brought her to the edge in moments. "Good," Marcus murmured encouragingly, pressing his lips over and over against the back of Jake's shoulders and neck as he kissed Abby over and over, as his fingers thrust in and out. "Good, Jake, that's good. Look how close she is. Look how beautiful your wife is when she's about to come."

It was that, in the end - his low, reverent voice, the way even with her eyes closed she could feel his gaze on her skin - which brought her over the edge, orgasm racing through her like an electrical current, leaving her spent and trembling.

Marcus lifted her in his arms, then, as though she weighed nothing at all, carried her back into the bedroom, set her on her feet, and toweled her off with the same ritual solemnity with which he'd undressed her, then lifted her again and set her down gently on the heap of pillows, a damp, trembling little ball of anticipation and still-unquenched desire, before he went back for Jake.

Neither of the Griffins had had any idea how long they stayed in the tub, licking and kissing and caressing every inch of each other's skin, but by the time they moved from bath to bed the sky over the gardens outside their window was dark. Marcus took Jake by the hand, helped him out of the Jacuzzi, and dried his whole body with another fluffy white towel, and Abby could see even in the room's dim light how hard they both were. He was rougher with Jake than he'd been with Abby, pushing him down on the mattress and pinning him down by the wrists before licking his way down the other man's chest, which made Jake's cock and Abby's cunt pulse in tandem. Then Jake arched his back and let out a sound Abby had never heard him make before, as she watched that cock she knew so well get swallowed up by the plush lips of this sweet, earnest boy, who could take all of Jake’s length in one long, sweet suck without even blinking. It took hardly any time - Jake had been achingly hard for so long - but it was so forceful Abby was stunned by it. Jake came and came and came, hips lifting off the bed, crying out the other man's name in wonder over and over again like it was a magic spell.

Then Marcus lifted his head, and delicately wiped his lower lip clean with the back of his hand, and looked up, and his eyes met Abby's.

 _Yes,_ her whole body begged him silently. _Yes, yes, yes._

“Come here, baby,” Jake murmured sleepily, opening his arms for Abby to climb inside them, resting her back against his chest, and opening her thighs. She could feel her husband's soft, spent cock against her hip, his body warm and familiar beneath her own, and she could have anything she wanted without fear because Jake had chosen this place, chosen this man, Jake made everything feel safe and right and true, so she reached out for Marcus and said his name. And then in a heartbeat, there he was, braced over her on his powerful arms, one hand cradling Jake’s jaw and one caressing hers, something like wonder in his eyes, and as her lips formed the silent word _“Please,”_ he gave her a smile so dazzling that it lit up the whole room as though the ceiling were hung with stars, and then a cock that didn’t belong to Jake Griffin nudged her soaked folds apart and slid into her cunt, for the very first time in her life.

 _"Oh,"_ Marcus whispered as he stared down at her, eyes wide, as though inexplicably he was as stunned by this as she was. "Oh, Abby."

Then he moved inside her, and she shattered.

_Oh, God._

_Oh, God._

It was so good. It was so good the word "good" had no meaning anymore, a weak and inadequate thing which could not describe the way it felt to be cradled inside two pairs of powerful arms, between two hot bare chests, Marcus gazing down at her as though he could not believe she was real while Jake's fingers caressed her arms and stomach and breasts.

“Yes,” she begged over and over again. It was all she could say.

Jake turned his head to nuzzle a soft kiss into the palm of Marcus' hand, which was still cradling his jaw with impossible tenderness. "She can take all of you," he said softly, "you don't have to hold back."

Abby nodded breathlessly, reaching up to pull his face down to hers. She knew she could not kiss him - this had been written on the menu in several places, made explicitly clear - but she got as dangerously close as she dared, his forehead nearly touching hers. "Don't hold back," she repeated.

So from that moment on, he didn't. He plunged inside, bottoming out inside Abby with one powerful thrust, causing her to arch her back and cry out, as he collapsed heavily against her breast, hips crashing and crashing into hers. Her arms went around his back, and so did Jake’s, and they cradled him there as he fucked her and fucked her and fucked her, until Abby came so hard that she swore she felt the polarity of the earth reversing. 

When they woke up, they canceled their reservation at the Luxor, and stayed at the Paradise for six more days.

* * * * *

Against all expectation, the Griffins fell in love with the Paradise.

During the day, they hiked and got massages and ate Vera’s delicious food and drove into the local towns to browse for antiques and crafts. At night, they took Marcus to bed, and watched him grow soft, warm, human, even affectionate, under their touch. What Abby had first taken for something cold, even mean, was revealed to be something more like shyness. They hadn’t known then that they were, in a way, his first too, as he was theirs. Marcus came alive in their bed, and made things seem natural and pure and beautiful which the Abby of two weeks ago would have blushed to even speak aloud. Dildos, handcuffs, fisting. Guiding another man’s cock into Jake’s mouth and ass. Marcus inside her from behind while Jake moved on top of her. Things she could never have imagined.

Then, before they knew it, the week was over, and they were on a plane back to Vermont, and nine months later a new distraction entered their lives which made any hope of a return visit impossible.

Time passed, lives moved on, but still, even from nearly three thousand miles away, the thread tying them all to each other never snapped.

 _Someday,_ all three of them thought to themselves, at unexpected moments, as the years rolled on. 

_Someday._


	3. Ideo Adulescentulae Dilexerunt Te (“Therefore young maidens have loved you”)

**PRESENT**

_Rope._

_This is the first thing she notices, when she comes to._

_She’s lying on her side, a hard metal surface beneath her - it’s cold against her cheek - and her hands are bound with rope._

_She can’t see anything, there’s a scratchy piece of fabric bound over her eyes, canvas or wool or something. She can feel the coarse fibers scraping against her skin. She isn’t gagged, and that worries her._

_Where the fuck is she, that nobody is worried about whether or not she might scream?_

You know rope, _she reminds herself sternly._ Nobody in the town of Eden knows rope better than you.

 _But it’s not the same, when it’s being done_ to _you. She can tie any one of a dozen different knots on somebody else - knots for when they want to slip out of their restraints easily, knots for when they’re turned on by the act of struggling, knots for the ones who want to be held in place so entirely that they’re dependent on her mercy to get free._

_But no one - not once, not even in training - has used those restraints on her._

“No one touches Octavia.”

 _This is Marcus Kane’s strictest and most inflexible rule. This was the deal they made with each other, and it has never been broken. He has thrown clients out and blacklisted them forever just for_ thinking _about grabbing her breasts or her ass while she’s working._

_Marcus is the first person who ever made a promise to her and kept it. He told her he would never let anyone touch her against her will again._

_And until tonight, no one ever did._

_She bites her lip, blinking back tears inside her blindfold._

_Marcus has never failed her. Marcus taught her everything she knows, he was a shield wrapped around her bruised, broken self until she healed enough to become her own shield, and then he stepped back and let her rise on her own to become something she could never have imagined._

_But he cannot save her from this._

_Because Marcus is on a plane coming home from Chicago right now._

_Marcus does not even know that she’s gone._

* * *

**SIX MONTHS AGO**

“Shit!” exclaimed Marcus, staggering back as the blow landed. He was too slow on his feet, and only just moved the oblong leather pad strapped to his hands in time to block the nimble uppercut from colliding with his chin. She’d faked him out by moving into a right cross, and he’d relaxed for half a second; she was left-handed, and her right was weaker than her left.

“You’re losing your edge, old man,” laughed Octavia, her sleek black ponytail bouncing as she shifted her weight back onto the balls of her feet and prepared for another round.

“I don’t think I’m getting worse, I think you’re getting better.”

She shrugged, grinning. “Both things can be true.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You gotta be more careful,” she warned him teasingly. “If I mess up that pretty face, and you’re out of a job, then I’m out of a job.”

“Okay, first of all,” he retorted, “I don’t think one black eye is going to bring this whole place crashing down.”

“No one’s going to want to watch you fuck if you’re holding in a nosebleed the whole time.”

“This was _your idea,_ Octavia. Everyone else voted for Peloton bikes, but _you_ wanted a boxing ring, so I got you a boxing ring -”

“I said thank you!”

“ . . . and now you’ve become a public menace.”

“What can I say?” the girl shrugged, sending two playful left jabs - mild enough not to cause any damage, but hard enough to make the point - into the pad he was still holding up. “I like punching things."

"That's an understatement," he said dryly, and laughed as he caught her right hook just in time.

 _That’s my girl,_ he thought to himself, with impossible affection, as her black mitt collided over and over again with the pads he was holding to block. _That’s my girl._

_No one will ever hurt you again._

* * * * *

Octavia was the domme at the Paradise, and one of its most popular attractions. Marcus had spared no expense in her training, from lessons in shibari (the erotic Japanese art of rope bondage) to sessions with professional fight choreographers. She was petite and slender, and when she’d first arrived here as a teenager she’d been skin and bones; even now, in her sneakers instead of the tall stiletto boots she usually wore, Marcus dwarfed her. But she’d grown into a warrior since then, and the sweat-sheened skin bared by her black cotton shorts and sports bra rippled with taut, powerful muscle. She could lay Marcus out flat on his back if she wanted to. Had, in fact; more than once.

Though not, to be clear, in a sexual way. Octavia was the only staff member at the Paradise who Marcus had never partnered. Not for lack of opportunity; she'd worked for him for twelve years, so inevitably there had been moments where he’d idly wondered what it would be like, and moments when she had idly considered proposing it. 

But they had a peculiar relationship - he was, in his own strange way, as close to a dad as she’d ever known - and there were boundaries there which did not exist between Marcus and anyone else.

And crossing boundaries was the one thing Marcus Kane never, ever did.

At nearly thirty, she was undeniably a striking young woman, with sleek dark hair, sparkling eyes that flashed with keen intelligence, and the physique of a Hollywood action hero’s stunt double, since that’s kind of what she was - a professional at simulating violence in a safe environment. Whips, bondage, breath play, wrestling . . . she could do it all. And she had a zero percent client injury rate, which frankly was better than some of her colleagues. (Roan had given someone a concussion on a headboard once.) She also taught feminist BDSM classes for the locals, a new innovation she’d pitched to Marcus a few years ago which had become a significant new revenue stream and was a central component of their ongoing plans to expand their tourist market.

The one thing she did not do was fuck.

Nobody touched Octavia.

This had been the arrangement they reached with each other, years and years ago, and at the time there had been real and immediate reasons for it. But life had healed some of the wounds Octavia arrived with, making this less of an urgent protective measure, and more simply the image she performed for audiences. Everyone at the Paradise had a carefully-crafted persona, and Icy, Untouchable Domme was Octavia’s.

In the dungeon, which was her cherished domain, she dominated clients. Onstage, in front of her audience, she dominated her coworkers. But the agency was always hers. She never took off her clothes. She never made herself sexually available. She was on one side of a line, and everyone else was on the other, and this aloof coolness was so dazzlingly erotic that her performances had become a bona fide cash cow.

(This was why, when a year-end surplus made it possible to refurbish one of the unused basement storage rooms into a staff gym, the boxing ring had won out over the Peloton bikes. Roan could bitch all he wanted, but a whole lot more of it was Octavia’s money than his.)

Over the years, the colleagues Marcus had grown up with departed one by one to build other lives for themselves. Thelonious lived in Denver, and had a kid now. Callie married a nice Mormon dentist and moved to Salt Lake. Diana lived in Paris, and dated old rich European men (which Marcus occasionally teased her was not really a career change so much as a demotion from salary to freelance). This kind of work wasn’t for everybody, and many others had come and gone in the years since he’d taken over.

But Octavia was special, because she was his first. Of the quirky, colorful little family he’d built here, the young people in whom he had identified something special and worthy of nurturing, she was the one who began it all. The first one that he chose. And the one who, in her own way, made everything that happened afterwards possible. She dropped into his life out of nowhere, and changed it forever, and there were few people in his life who had ever inspired in him this kind of ferocious protectiveness.

Even if, sometimes, that protectiveness manifested as allowing himself to get his ass kicked in the boxing ring he bought to make her happy.

“Come on, boss,” she said impatiently, bouncing eagerly back and forth from foot to foot. “Let’s go again.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just watch the nose. I have to perform tonight.”

“No promises. Besides," she added, a wave of bitterness sweeping over her face for a moment, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, "we both need the distraction right now."

He lowered his hands. "Don't," he said in a low voice. "Please."

"I'm sorry."

"There are times when I can talk about this with you," he said quietly. "And there are times when I can't. This is one of those times."

She looked at him in silence for a long time. "You've got it so bad," she finally said. "I don't think I knew how bad it was."

"Octavia, the amount of effort it has taken me every single day, for the past five months, from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep, to hold it together without breaking -"

"Have you talked to Niylah about this?"

"She's a therapist. She's not magic. She can diagnose a broken heart, but she can't fix one."

Octavia was silent. "Did you ever say it out loud?" she finally asked him. "Before, I mean."

"I couldn't. You know why."

"I hate this," she muttered. "I hate it. I hate it. I hate seeing you like this."

Marcus gave a rueful little smile, awkwardly attempting to dash a tear away from the corner of his eye with the huge stupid foam pad still strapped to his hand. "It isn't much fun for me _being_ like this," he said, "if that helps you."

"You're different. You're sad now. You're sad all the time."

"Not . . . _all_ the time," he protested weakly. "I was happy before we started this conversation."

She shook her head. "It's always there, though," she said. "When you smile, when you laugh, even when you're performing. Maybe not everybody sees it, but I can see it." She gave him a long, serious look. "I was a bad friend to you," she said. "You took care of me for so long - you're always so good at seeing what everyone else needs - and then the one time you needed someone to see _you_ -"

"You're being way too hard on yourself. How could you have known? Even _I_ didn't know."

"I just want you to be happy."

"I was," he said. "For a little while."

The silence that followed this made both of them miserable.

"I hate this," she muttered fiercely. "Fuck that asshole, for leaving you."

"Hey," he retorted sharply, head snapping up to meet her eyes. "No. Don't. I know you're angry on my behalf, Octavia, and I know that threatening to kill people is how you show you care, but it doesn't make me feel better to hear you talk that way about someone that I -"

He stopped short, the word hovering on the tip of his tongue like a rock teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff.

 _This can't be how it happens,_ he thought to himself wearily. _You can't say it out loud for the first time like this. In the boxing ring. To_ Octavia.

" . . . that I miss," he finished lamely, but she wasn't fooled.

"Fine," she conceded grudgingly. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm just really fucking mad."

"And hurt," he said, "which is okay too. I'm not the only one who was left behind here."

"That's what Lincoln said," she muttered. "I hate it when you two gang up on me."

"To remind you that we love you very much and we know you very well and sometimes you go straight to anger because it's easier than feeling anything else?"

"Shut up."

Marcus laughed at this, and some of the heaviness in the air between them faded, a little. "Come on," he said. "You were right. We need a distraction." He held up his foam mitts again. "If you need to hit something," he said, "hit me."

* * *

**FIVE YEARS AGO**

The line at Gina's - Eden’s one genuinely excellent coffee cart, located in a gravel lot on the other side of town - had been much longer than he'd expected for a random Wednesday afternoon, but even though he knew there was a chance he would be late for his next appointment, he held out. He'd been up well past midnight with an extremely . . . _imaginative_ client, and he had both a city council meeting and a triple with Raven and Roan tonight before he would see his own bed again; he could not be expected to survive the afternoon without a latte.

His attempts to sneak past Indra's office on his return, however, were unsuccessful.

"You're ten minutes late," she called out from her desk at the sound of his footsteps, without even looking up. "They're already in the Red Room. Callie started without you."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll apologize when I get there, I just -" He paused. "Hang on," he said, doubling back and stepping all the way into her doorway. "What's that face?"

"This is," she said tonelessly, "my normal face."

"No, it isn't. It's your face for when you know something I don't know."

"Like I said," she replied, entirely deadpan, busying herself with her paperwork. "My normal face."

"Indra, do _not_ send me into a job interview without all the information I need."

"You would know everything I currently know if you had actually looked at _any_ of the application packets I sent you," she told him. "Did you, in fact, look at any of the application packets I sent you?"

He should have paid the stupid seventy-five cents for the extra shot of espresso. "I know you can see which emails I haven't opened," he reminded her warily, "so this question is a trap. Besides, Callie said she'd take care of it."

"She did, because she's a responsible adult who actually reads her email, and we met about it this morning. This girl is the front-runner. She's the one in town from Utah. Which, again, you would know, if -"

"If I ever checked my email. I'm sorry. I will write up an HR complaint on myself for your file."

"Bold of you to assume I didn't do it already and forge your name," she said. "Anyway, her paperwork is all in order and her tape is very good, so she's yours if you like her. As I suspect," she added, again in that cryptic tone, "that you will."

"Indra!"

"If you stay and argue with me, you're going to be fifteen minutes late. A very poor first impression of the kind of business we run around here."

He narrowed his eyes and glared at her for a long moment, but she serenely ignored him. Clearly, he would be getting nothing more out of her, so he sighed and departed, making his way down the back stairs which led from the rear wing of the south building - where the administrative offices and staff residences were located - to the second floor, which housed the Paradise’s two smaller performing spaces.

He could hear voices as he approached; Callie had clearly begun without him.

" . . . two primary partners," he heard her say. "You'll be working very closely with Octavia, but that's a longer process. She'll be training you for at least a month before you do any dungeon scenes, and even then we'll start you slow. You'll shadow me for two weeks, until I leave, and then we'll be bringing in some outside coaches. There's a lot of safety stuff, even for an ingenue role, where you're mostly just receiving."

"That's fine," came another female voice.

"And your _other_ partner," Callie added, looking up as he entered the room, "for the scenes you'll be doing in here, apparently decided to stop for coffee on his way to work without bringing any for the rest of the class. Worst boss ever." He made a face at her, and she made a face back. She was seated, clipboard in hand, with her feet curled up beneath her on one of the lush red sofas that faced the opulent curtained bed in the center of the room, talking to a female figure he could only partially see behind the lush brocade drapes.

“I’m so sorry,” Marcus began, as the figure rose and turned to him, “I was _sure_ I'd make it back in time, but there was a line, and they were all out of -”

He froze, suddenly, his voice trailing off into silence, as time collapsed in on itself and it suddenly felt like today and ten years ago all at once.

It couldn't be. It _couldn't_ be.

“She was wondering,” said Callie softly, “if you would remember her.”

 _“Harper,”_ he exclaimed finally, after he got his voice back. “My God. Harper. Is that really you?”

“Hi, Mr. Kane,” she said with a hesitant smile, and instantly he closed the distance between them in two long strides, folding the girl into his arms.

“Marcus,” he protested immediately, kissing the top of her head. "My God. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

She hugged him back. She smelled like vanilla and lavender. Her hair was thick and silken and her skin was smooth and unblemished and she’d lost the gaunt, hollow look she’d had when he first met her all those years ago. He pulled back to look at her again, heart bursting with affection. “You look well, Harper. You look happy.”

“I am,” she said. “We have a big house now, with room for all of us. And there are more every day.”

“I know. I read all your letters. You really did it, Harper. You escaped, you made a life for yourself. You kept your family safe. I'm so proud of you."

“I was so sorry to hear about your mom,” she said, a little helplessly. “I hope that she knew how much she meant to me. I hope she knew that she saved our lives.”

Marcus smiled, grief and gratitude tugging at each other as he looked down at the girl’s lovely face. “She did know,” he said softly, “but thank you anyway, for saying it.”

Behind him, Callie delicately cleared her throat. “I know you both have much more catching up to do,” she cut in, “but we only have the room for an hour before the lighting crew comes in. So we should probably get started.”

Marcus returned abruptly from the past as the present crashed back in on him, and he suddenly recalled with vivid clarity who and where he was, and what this young woman was doing here.

He frowned down at her, brow furrowed, trying to work the thing out in his mind. “You were free of this town,” he said slowly. “You went off and built a new life. You were safe from him, from all of them, in Salt Lake.”

“Octavia said you needed a new ingenue,” said Harper, as though that was sufficient explanation.

“Harper -”

“She’s happy here.”

“What she does is very different,” said Marcus. “Everyone who works here has a different kind of role, like a character they play, and this one - you’d be replacing Callie, so it would involve a lot more -”

“I know. They explained it to me.”

Marcus swallowed hard. “Harper,” he said carefully, trying to be as blunt about it as he could while still being tactful. “I don’t have sex with Octavia.”

“I know.”

“I do have sex with Callie, at least four times a week.”

“I know.”

“Oh, good Lord,” sighed Callie impatiently. “We’re going to be doing this all day. Marcus, she’s twenty-five, she knows what she’s getting into, she thinks you’re hot, she’s not a virgin anymore, Indra and I have both seen her tape, and she checked ‘Definitely Interested’ under both age play and daddy kink, which means she’d be invaluable in expanding the menu of services. Can you please just take your clothes off so we can run _Dangerous Liaisons_ and see if it works?”

Marcus looked down at the sweet, pretty face looking up at him, and though a faint blush turned her cheeks slightly rosy, she did not deny any of what the older woman had said.

“You’re sure,” he said to her quietly.

“Very sure.”

There was a long pause. “Okay, then,” he finally said, knocking back the last of his coffee in one gulp and setting the cup down on the table next to Callie so he could undress. “Let’s run it.”

“Good,” said Callie briskly, who was now all business. “Harper, bra and underwear, please. You'll be fitted for wardrobe later, and you'll have a few different costumes. There's a kind of basic framework to the scene, in terms of your actual choreography - who puts what where, and all that - and then anywhere from two to four different storylines that get layered on top of it. So you can change from a Victorian nightgown to a schoolgirl outfit, or whatever, throw in a smattering of different dialogue, and then bam, whole new show. It allows us to vary things more quickly, and swap in understudies when we need to, without everyone having to re-learn a sequence of dozens of sexual positions each time."

"That makes sense," said Harper agreeably, tugging her sweater over her head with businesslike efficiency before stepping out of her ballet flats and unzipping her jeans.

"With Octavia you'll be more focused on stunt work, because you'll be partnering her in the bigger theatre. It's all much more physical. But the audience gets a great deal closer to you in the Red Room, so in here, everything hinges on the acting."

"I did some community theatre when I was in Salt Lake."

"I saw that on your resume. That's great. Do you know the play _Dangerous Liaisons_ at all? Or the movie?" The girl shook her head, and Callie laughed. "Oh, right. With your upbringing, it might have been a little too racy for you."

"It doesn't sound," said Harper wryly, "like a play that would be much of a hit in Salt Lake."

"Well, you and Marcus can play around together with some different production concepts - wardrobe, setting, dialogue. Costume really helps for getting into character, I find. Over the years, we've done versions of this scene that ranged from pretty close to the original text, to priest and Catholic schoolgirl, to a vampire one that is so popular in October you wouldn't even believe how much we can now get away with charging for it."

"Oh my God, _yes,_ sexy vampires!" Harper exclaimed, "I am definitely learning that one."

"Marcus _hates_ wearing the fangs," Callie cautioned her, "so just be forewarned he will do absolutely everything possible to get out of it."

They both cackled merrily at this, like they were old friends, which he frankly found to be indescribably surreal.

Harper, of all people. Here, of all places.

But then, hadn't he, all those years ago, been the one who opened the door? The first person to look her in the eye and insist that her body was her own, and only she could choose what happened to it?

It had just never occurred to him that she would choose this.

She wasn't a virgin, Callie had said. He hoped, a little desperately, that meant Salt Lake. The odds were better, if it had happened there and not here. A nice neighbor kid or something. Someone her age, someone awkward and eager and sweet, someone who knew all about her past and made her feel safe.

But in case that hadn't been how it happened - in case her body was carrying, dark, ugly memories just beneath the skin - he would give her the one thing he was better at giving to people than anyone else in this town.

He had promised her, years ago, that she would always be safe with him.

"If you're comfortable improvising," Callie was saying, as he shook himself lightly and returned to the present, "let's try a more contemporary variant. Really simple, I won't start you out having to master period dialogue or iambic pentameter - yes," she said, in response to Harper's look of astonishment, "he did make me do that once and I don't want to talk about it."

"It was _A Midsummer Night's Dream,"_ said Marcus, "and excuse me but it was inspired."

"People can do one of these two things at a time, Marcus. They can fuck, or they can count every goddamn syllable coming out of their mouth to make sure the verse scans. Both cannot be achieved successfully."

"You lack _vision,_ that's your problem."

"Anyway," Callie went on, turning back to Harper, now seated in a ruffled pink-and-white polka dot bra and panties on the side of the bed. "The basic skeleton scene, as I said, is very, very loosely derived from _Dangerous Liaisons_. Promiscuous older libertine takes innocent girl’s virginity and awakens her voracious lust, blah blah etc. I'll talk you both through it beat by beat, but part of the process is also learning how to tune out the audience and stay connected with your partner. So always look at him, not at me."

"Got it. Where do you want me to start?"

"We can fast-forward through some of the setup," Callie answered. "Like I said, the dialogue will vary. Let's start with you on your back. Hands tied to the bedpost, but we won’t use real rope until dress rehearsals, so just hold them above you for now." Harper obeyed, arranging herself artistically on the mountain of satin pillows, hair carefully spread out behind her, back arched just enough to lift her full young breasts in their pink-and-white ruffled bra into more prominent view. "Good. Now, Marcus will come out from over there, 'Growl growl growl' sexy dialogue -"

"Hey!"

"Don't break character. Anyway, Marcus will come out and pace around the bed and growl at you for a few minutes, dialogue pending, and probably undress, more sexy growling -"

"Should I struggle a bit? 'Oh no, help me, I'm trying to get free', that kind of thing?"

 _"Great_ instincts. Yes. Don't push it too far, this isn't a non-consent scene, we always give the audience very specific advance trigger warnings for content like that; but a little bit of writhing around when he gets too close will play really well. Builds tension. Marcus, honey, look scary."

"The extent to which you're enjoying this -"

Callie laughed. "I'm not Octavia," she reminded him. "Directing is the only bossing around I get to do."

"What if I'm like, struggling to get my hands free," suggested Harper, "and I get it like _almost,_ and then that's when he like, _pounces_ on top of me."

"Pounce" was very nearly as undignified a verb here as "growl," he could not help noting, but if one ignored that minor point, it was actually a very good suggestion. It occurred to him that despite all his own internalized . . . whatever, about her past and how they'd met, Harper might actually be a natural at this.

"Okay," he said. "Let's try it. You resist, I'll . . . pounce."

"Great," said Callie. "Harper, try something simple, like, 'Let me go, please don't hurt me," and Marcus -"

"I know what to say."

"Okay, then. Harper, whenever you're ready. He'll take his cue off of you."

"Awesome," said Harper, grinning up at Marcus, and then she took a deep inhale, held it, let it out . . . and turned into a totally different person.

Her hips lifted off the bed, writhing back and forth, tugging at her invisible bonds with such desperation in her wild eyes that Marcus entirely forgot there was no rope there. "Please," she whimpered, biting her lip. "Please let me go. Don't hurt me." She managed to convey all the muscle tension of genuine physical struggle, while also keeping her back arched just enough that her sweet young breasts were displayed to perfection and every wriggle and moan was as erotic as it was believable.

And then she gasped, tugging frantically at her restraints in terror as his big, warm, hard body crashed down against hers.

"I can't let you go," he whispered hoarsely into her ear, as his hands clamped down hard on her forearms, pinning her in place. "But I'll never, ever hurt you."

"Great, you guys," Callie murmured, "keep going," and then they were off.

Callie's voice was low, and sweet, and Marcus had always found it very sexy; it was easy to forget she was sitting there on a sofa, watching him fuck with a clipboard in her hands to take notes for Indra. She disappeared from the room itself and became simply the voice in their heads, telling these two characters - the growling libertine and the trembling virgin - what they wanted to do with each other.

Marcus was a good actor, and he knew how to disappear into a character, but Harper made it all so easy. When he bent his head to pepper her throat with rough little kisses, she gave a delicious little scream, and even as her head shook back and forth _\- no, no, no -_ her hips were thrusting up and up into his, a greedy, ravenous grinding that made him achingly hard despite the layers of cotton and silk still between them. Perfectly-calibrated ambivalence. And it _worked;_ it made this man - this character he was playing - forceful, impatient, determined to push the limits of her resistance until the "no" she didn't mean became the "yes" she wouldn't let herself say.

She played the "no" as he kissed her neck and tongued the swell of her breasts and pulled off her panties and kissed his way down her stomach, and he was in it so deep that when he finally got the "yes" - when she opened her thighs and lifted her hips off the bed to meet his mouth - he felt real triumph surge through his whole body.

"Good, Marcus," said Callie. "Harper, in a performance he'll remain in this position until you come. If you'd like him to stay where he is and finish you off, tell him, in character. If you'd like him to stop and move on, reach down and tap the back of his head. That's the safe word, for oral, to make sure he hears you."

Marcus paused for a moment, and waited, but no tap came. Instead, something else happened.

"Make me come," Harper whispered. "Make me come, daddy. Please."

_Fuck._

The energy in the whole room changed. Even Callie felt it. Marcus dived ravenously back between Harper's thighs, licking and sucking until she came against his tongue with an eager little cry. "Keep going in that direction, Harper," said Callie softly, as Marcus kissed his way up her body, so she said it again, over and over.

"Yes, daddy," as his tongue laved her throat, and "oh God, daddy," through all the business of condom and lube, as she got her first look at his cock and her eyes went wide with astonishment that was not _entirely_ performative, and then "please, daddy, please," as he braced himself over her and finally slid inside.

Harper was very, very, very good at this.

She was giddy and eager, and as his hips began to move and he was finally fucking her for real, he saw her eyes glow up at him with delight, but she also did not break character. Her guileless, innocent virgin gasps and cries were almost indescribably erotic, and when she breathed "yes, daddy, it's better than I ever imagined" into his ear as though it were only for him, he felt his cock twitch inside her so hard that he was afraid he might come right there. It was the closest Marcus had come in years to breaking character in the middle of a scene, but he hadn’t realized how that word would resonate. He’d used it on clients in his own youthful days, and he’d had clients use it on him, and it had meant nothing, particularly, except that he was very good at giving clients what they wanted. But it was different with Harper, because he’d known her ten years ago when she was a frightened and fragile thing, and now she was a woman, graceful and strong and lovely and choosing her own pleasure with a self-assuredness that startled him, and he felt a kind of passionate, protective tenderness swell up inside his heart. He wanted to fuck her until she came so hard she saw stars. He wanted to wrap her up in his strong arms and cradle her against his chest. 

(It was not _romantic,_ this thing between them, and over the years it never became so; Marcus never fell in love with Harper, and Harper never fell in love with him. It was always as much about how it felt to disappear into a character with her as it was about their real relationship. It was a peculiar inverse, in a way, of his bond with Octavia. They'd lived such similar lives, but it had shaped them differently, and they coped with it now as women by needing different things from him. For Octavia: space, freedom, untouchability, respect, room to spread her wings and find her own way. For Harper: to be held close, doted on, cherished, protected, by the first man she'd ever known whose touch made her feel perfectly and completely safe. The first man who ever told her that pleasure was something she could choose.)

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured into the soft white skin of her throat as his fingertips skimmed gently up and down her thighs, her waist, the sides of her soft full breasts, feeling goosebumps spring up in his wake wherever he touched her. He was deft and purposeful in his fucking, long smooth strokes that filled her completely, always just enough but never too much, holding the vast power of his strong warm body in check. She moaned and trembled with pleasure, body writhing against his, fucking him back with voracious enthusiasm, but she also never forgot - not once, not even for a second - about the invisible rope.

Already a professional.

Indra had not been wrong about Harper, and neither had Callie. The thought of having a partner like this four nights a week - this angelic blonde with pink cheeks and wide eyes who called him “daddy” in a voice that made his cock twitch and who had come back to the town she must still sometimes have nightmares about because she felt safer with him than anywhere else in the world - was overwhelming.

“Let me take care of you, baby girl,” he whispered again, slipping a hand down between their bodies to find her clit, tracing circles around it with the pad of his fingertip until she dissolved in his arms.

He could have stayed there for the rest of the night, just holding her and gazing down at her face as she came, trembling wildly beneath him. But Callie’s gentle guiding voice did not stop, because that was not how this scene ended; so a heartbeat later he was on his back, condom neatly disposed of, Harper’s pink lips wrapped worshipfully around his cock, and her soft sweet voice - “let me take care of _you_ , daddy” - did something to him, and for a moment he let himself just . . . be. 

He closed his eyes, and he allowed himself to be taken care of.

It was gentle, and sweet, and she was very good, delicate teasing kitten licks and soft strokes of light fingertips in all the right places, kissing him all over. He found himself wishing, with something like sadness, that he could fall in love with someone like Harper. It would be nice, to have something like this that was real. 

It would be nice to let himself be cherished, sometimes, by someone who really meant it.

It would be nice if every once in awhile, somebody touched Marcus Kane, instead of the character Marcus Kane was playing.

_(You mean Abby. Just admit that you mean Abby.)_

But Abby was thousands of miles away, and didn't belong to him, and it was silly to get emotional about it, especially in the middle of an extremely professional-quality blowjob, so he forced the wistful voice in the back of his mind to shut the fuck up and let Harper’s lovely mouth finish him off, and when he came, Callie applauded.

“Great work today, both of you,” she said. “Let’s get you back to Indra to finish your paperwork. Marcus will clean himself up and meet us there. Welcome aboard, Harper. I think you're going to do very well here."

"Yay!" said Harper brightly, taking the glass of water Callie offered her and patting Marcus affectionately on the head as she rose to gather her clothes. "That was so much fun!"

The two women made their way out together, so Callie could show Harper where the restroom was to get cleaned up and changed ("and pee, so you don't get a UTI!" "No, I know, I always do!").

Marcus lay on the bed in the Red Room for a long time before he finally mustered the strength to get up, and no one was more surprised than he was at the strange, sad, hollow feeling in his chest.

She was funny, and warm, and sweet, and sexy, and took direction well, and they'd clicked immediately. She had crushed this audition on every level; it had been a long time since anyone had arrived this strong right out of the gate. He should be thrilled. He should be tallying up dollar signs in his head. Daddy kink would be _gold_ at the late-night shows.

So why did it feel like this?

 _Because,_ a small, cruel voice murmured in the back of his mind, _she's a better actor than you._

Because just for a moment, _he'd_ been the one making a first-time client's innocent rookie mistake.

He was the one who wanted, just for a second, for this to be real, and crashed back down to earth when it ended and he remembered that it wasn't.

Not that he wanted it to be real with _Harper,_ specifically.

But with someone. Someday. Before the clock ran out.

But she'd done everything right. None of this was her fault. He could not blame her for the fact that he was leaving this room a little bit more lonely than he was when he'd come into it. He could not blame her for only being herself, instead of being the woman that he really wanted. She was only doing her job.

"Kane!" he heard Callie holler. "Jesus, man, how long does it take you to tuck it back in? Indra's waiting!"

He sighed, and sat up.

 _For the love of God, man,_ he thought, scrubbing his hands wearily over his face. _Get it together._


	4. Memorare ("Remember")

**FIFTEEN YEARS AGO**

“I think you and I got off on the wrong foot,” said Marcus, once both men had settled themselves as comfortably as was possible in the hard-backed wooden chairs of Brother Zechariah’s office. “I’d like to start over. I don’t see any reason why the two of us can’t live and let live.”

“Of course you don’t,” said the preacher coolly. “It surprises me very little, Mr. Kane, that you would prefer an arrangement whereby I simply abandon my religious principles in order to permit your den of iniquity to flourish unchecked.”

Marcus did not give the other man the satisfaction of a response to this, but took the opportunity afforded by the long, uncomfortable interval of silence to appraise his opponent more thoroughly.

They were not so very far apart in age, though they wore it differently. Marcus in his mid-thirties had relaxed into himself, the frosty stiffness of his youth largely faded. He was comfortable in his own skin, with a kind of casual elegance, and the word used most commonly to describe him by clients at the Paradise was “warm.” His hair was thick and soft, at some point in the past few years he'd adopted a beard, he had the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and he lived most days in jeans and flannel unless he was with clients or performing.

Brother Zechariah, on the other hand, had the angular, ageless face of a Fra Angelico angel, high cheekbones made more pronounced by the startling gauntness of his frame (very dedicated to fasting, the Daughters of Eve were) and pale blond hair, so fair it was almost white, combed straight back from his high forehead. He was probably in his mid-forties, but Marcus suspected he had looked exactly like this when he was eighteen and would look no different when he was seventy. There was something bloodless and colorless about him which Marcus - a man of deep feeling and vibrant appetites - found unsettling. The first time the Kanes had laid eyes on him, five or six years ago, Vera had remarked under her breath that the young man looked like he was up for the role of a Nazi in a Broadway musical but overcommitted to hair and makeup for the audition; this was an uncharacteristically savage remark, for his mother, but the passage of time had done nothing to lessen that distasteful first impression.

“I haven’t come here to tempt you into sin, Brother Zechariah,” said Marcus. “Obviously, you and your followers are welcome at the Paradise anytime you like; our doors are open to anyone. But I’m not here to lure you into my ‘den of iniquity,’ as you put it. I’m here because we’re both, in our own ways, leaders of this community, and as such I’d like us to be able to coexist as neighbors. We don’t have to be friends, but we can be civil at least.”

“’Civil,’” the preacher repeated, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in a way Marcus had never actually seen a real live person do outside of a movie. It ought to have been ridiculous, but there was something about Brother Zechariah that always sent a sinister little shiver down his spine, some faint animal scent of danger in the air that followed the man wherever he went. True, neither he nor his people had ever broken so much as a municipal ordinance; Marcus had his own opinions about the fact that they were legally classed as a church and therefore tax-exempt, but he kept them to himself, and other than that, the Daughters of Eve were model citizens. On paper, anyway. They never drank, they never got in trouble with the law, they barely left their compound, and when they did it was to quietly patronize local businesses like the hardware store and the mom-and-pop grocery. Their children were home-schooled, but they accepted the district’s mandatory basic curricula without complaint. In the privacy of their own classrooms, Marcus had no way of knowing what those children were actually being taught about dinosaurs or the Big Bang Theory, but they all seemed able to keep up with district benchmarks for standardized testing, so there was nothing visible to object to.

And if you found it chilling to watch the Daughters in their sack-like gray dresses and cloaks, heads bowed and hooded, walking wordlessly through grocery store aisles like ghosts, well, there was nothing really to be done there either; Brother Zechariah was legally married to none of them, which meant he wasn’t a bigamist, which meant if he claimed that it was God’s divine will for him to have seven brides at a time, the law could not stop him.

“Civility is an overrated virtue,” Brother Zechariah replied. “What you are really asking from me is that I tolerate the intolerable.”

“No,” said Marcus, “what I’m asking is that you love your neighbor as yourself. Something I’m perfectly willing to attempt, if you are.”

“Even the Devil can quote Scripture when it suits him,” said the preacher. “That does not mean he understands it.”

Marcus took a deep breath and counted to three like his mother had taught him. “Okay,” he said patiently, gritting his teeth and trying again. “I’d like to explain to you a little bit more about what we actually do, at the Paradise. About who we are. I think you’re laboring under some misconceptions –“

“It is a whorehouse,” said Brother Zechariah evenly. “You are a whore. There are no misconceptions.”

This time he had to count to five. “It may surprise you to learn,” he said, struggling to keep his tone, “that for many of us - certainly for my mother, and for me - the work we do is also very much a kind of spiritual ministry. Pope John Paul II’s teachings on Theology of the Body call sex a sacred act, a way of encountering God. The deepest and purest way two people can connect. The Hebrew scholars who first compiled the Tanakh included Song of Songs, which is one of the most erotic works of poetry in Western civilization.”

“It is an allegory for the relationship between Christ and his bride, the Church,” said Brother Zechariah, rather testily.

“It goes on at quite a bit more length about honey-sweet kisses and plump white breasts than you’d expect from people who trafficked only in metaphor and weren’t attempting to arouse any sensual feelings in their listeners,” Marcus pointed out. “Allegory or no, the _language_ is erotic. It’s designed to provoke an erotic response. And it was deemed so important to the people of God that they placed it in their holy book.”

“And you would like me to believe that you, Marcus Kane, encounter the divine, when you are tying up women and beating them with paddles. Or sodomizing boys.”

Counting to three did not help this time. _“That,”_ said Marcus heatedly, “is exactly the reason why I had hoped to have a mature, adult conversation with you. Your picture of who we are is inaccurate, and informed by stereotypes and myths. I’m trying to show you that things aren’t black and white.”

“Give me one truthful example,” said Brother Zechariah, “of how prostitution has been a ‘sacred act’ to you. Not a rhetorical exercise about Song of Songs, but an actual experience from your life. Tell me how it is that the unspeakable depravities which take place inside that building have brought you closer to God.” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Take as much time as you need,” he said politely.

“I don’t need any time,” said Marcus immediately, his voice low and warm. “I think about her every day.”

* * * * *

_Abby still comes to him in his dreams._

_Sometimes she looks the way she did the very first moment he met her, stepping across the threshold of the Paradise Hotel in knee-high patent leather boots and a plaid miniskirt ripped straight out of an Aerosmith video, laughing over her shoulder at whatever Jake had just said to her as they made their way up the winding drive, under the arbor of freesia and through the palm trees to the front door._

_Sometimes he imagines her in a wedding dress. Not the cheap cotton sundress she wore to her actual wedding, which she subsequently repurposed as a cover-up for her swimsuit, something she casually mentioned to Marcus and then laughed out loud at the appalled expression on his face._ _But in his dreams, she looks like a bride out of a movie, all cascading tulle and flowing satin with a bouquet of white roses in her hands._

_Sometimes all he does is relive that very first moment when everything became real – when Jake asked Marcus to name whatever he wanted and Marcus, before he could stop himself, said he wanted to touch Abby’s hair. “It’s a mess from the drive,” she’d said, “we had the top down all the way.” “I don’t care,” he’d said, stepping in close as she pulled the elastic out of it and let the tangled caramel tresses fall loose around her shoulders, closing her eyes and sighing with pleasure as Marcus reached out shyly to touch it, and they’d stood there like that for a long time, Marcus running his fingers through her hair as Jake moved in to press up close behind him, lips nibbling lightly at the hollow of Marcus’ throat, as they all got used to each other._

_And sometimes it’s more, sometimes it’s so intense he wakes up in the night with his cock like warm iron between his thighs, sometimes he misses her to a degree he finds embarrassing for a woman he hasn’t seen in years. Some nights it’s the memory of tasting her cunt for the first time, her juices thick and hot against his tongue, tart and sweet at the same time. Some nights it’s the soft caress of her hands in his hair, as she lay propped up on her elbow and watched Marcus’ ass rise and fall on top of Jake’s, shivering with pleasure at the symphony of rough, desperate male groans. Some nights it’s the way her lips wrapped around his cock, that day when the Griffins came back early from their hike and found him in their room arranging fresh flowers to surprise them, and Abby said “orchids are my favorite” and Marcus said “I know” and her face lit up like the sun, and he felt her move in to kiss him as though a great and powerful magnet was pulling them together, and she only recollected herself just in time, but sank playfully down to her knees instead, with a teasing comment about how this was a pleasant workaround for the rule against kissing on the mouth, and as Jake moved behind him to wrap a pair of strong, warm arms around his waist, murmuring, “let go, baby, I got you,” Abby’s sweet rose-pink lips began kissing up and down the shaft of his cock and he knew that this was how she would kiss his mouth if she could, he had never wanted to break a rule so badly, and he sank back into Jake’s arms with a groan that shook his whole body._

_Everything about Abby is sacred to him. Her scent, her taste, her breath, her skin. The hollow at the back of her neck he liked to look at when she wore her hair up high in a bun. The way she raised one eyebrow when she was teasing him. The sound she made when his cock stretched her open for the first time. The hundreds of kisses he wanted to give her and didn't.  
_

_He isn’t lying, about Song of Songs. He thinks about it sometimes, when he dreams of her. The words make sense in a way they didn’t before._

“How beautiful your sandaled feet,  
O prince’s daughter!  
Your graceful legs are like jewels,  
the work of an artist’s hands.  
Your breasts are like two fawns,  
like twin fawns of a gazelle.  
Your neck is like an ivory tower.”

_For seven days her body had been his chapel, and he’d worshipped Abby there, but God had been there too._

_Then he wakes up, and she’s gone, she’s a ghost once more, a woman who appeared in his life for a brief moment and changed it entirely and then vanished, to live happily ever after with the warm, beautiful man who had found his own way into Marcus’ heart too, and the longing fades to a dull ache that allows him to go about his day._

_But nothing about her, about them, about those seven days, is wicked or sinful to him. It was the purest experience of joy in all his life._

* * * * *

Of course, he said none of this to Brother Zechariah.

“Sister Sarah,” the preacher said abruptly, interrupting Marcus’ reverie, and he turned, realizing with astonishment that all along there had been a figure huddled in the corner of the room behind him.

“Yes, Brother Zechariah?” said a young girl, stepping forward out of the shadows, head bowed. Her face was largely obscured by the dingy gray hood, but Marcus could see a slice of her profile, and his heart constricted in his chest. She looked no more than fourteen years old. And she’d recoiled instinctively from the sound of his voice, like she had been praying with all her might not to be noticed. Like the sound of her name in his mouth - despite the preacher's measured tone - landed upon her like a blow.

Harry Kane’s son knew that expression.

“I would like a glass of ice water. And one for our guest."

“Yes, Brother Zechariah,” she said immediately, and scurried away, as though relieved for even the briefest escape from his watchful gaze.

Marcus chose his next words with care, keeping his voice neutral. “Is Sister Sarah . . . one of your wives?” he asked, not quite daring to make eye contact with the man for fear of revealing the depths of his distaste.

“She is below the age of consent,” the other man said, voice cold, “a fact which you can hardly have failed to observe. Which leads me to believe that question is a trap. We stay on the right side of the law here, Mr. Kane, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Everything we do is entirely legal,” said Marcus. “We’re licensed by the state. Our employees have health insurance and collective bargaining. And most importantly,” he added, with a note of emphasis as Sister Sarah darted back into the room and placed two glasses of water on the desk with trembling hands before bolting back to her corner, ignoring Marcus' murmured thanks, “they have _freedom_. They choose to come work for me, they choose the jobs they will and won’t take, and they choose if they’d like to leave. I wonder if the women here could say the same.”

Brother Zechariah turned his gaze toward Sister Sarah, who trembled and stared down at the ground, causing Marcus to immediately regret his words. He’d meant them as a dig, but not at the girl, who he could see now was squirming under the weight of this sudden and deeply unwanted attention.

_Shit._

The preacher had outflanked him.

“Sister Sarah,” said the preacher pleasantly. “Why don’t you tell Mr. Kane why you have chosen to live as a Daughter of Eve?”

The girl spoke tremulously, eyes downcast, clearly repeating words learned by rote. “Because it was through Eve that sin first entered the world, and by living in strict discipline and fidelity to Brother Zechariah’s teachings, I may hope to purge my baser nature in order to win a place in the kingdom of God. The Daughters live by fasting and virginity like the young women martyrs of old, until we are chosen by a husband to fulfill woman’s only true divine purpose in this world, motherhood.”

Marcus leaned forward in his chair. “So you like the Virgin Martyrs, do you?” he asked kindly. “I know them well. Do you have a favorite?”

Sister Sarah looked shocked to be addressed directly, and her bright blue eyes darted worriedly to Brother Zechariah for permission. With a faint air of amusement, as though he were watching a precocious child perform at a dinner party, he nodded at her to proceed.

“I like Saint Lucy very much,” she said, coming to life ever so slightly, and for a moment she just looked like an ordinary girl. “I had a book when I was little with pictures of Christmas traditions from all around the world, and in Sweden they celebrate Saint Lucy’s Day in December with special cookies and a girl from the village leads a procession with a wreath of candles on her head.”

“Yes,” said Marcus, “it’s rather wonderful.”

“You’ve _seen_ it? You’ve been to _Sweden?”_

“Twice. Only once in December, though.”

“But . . . but you live _here,”_ she said, wide eyes fixed on his in utter bafflement. “And this place is so _small,_ and so far away from everything, and everyone seems to stay in one place.”

“I’ve been to seven different countries,” said Marcus. “Not all of them for very long, it sounds more impressive than it is, and I suppose if you count Great Britain as only one instead of four then the number goes down a bit.” Sister Sarah giggled a little at this. “I think travel is a marvelous thing,” he went on. “I think the more we see of the world, of people who live differently from us, the better we know ourselves.”

“A dangerous teaching,” said Brother Zechariah smoothly, and instantly Sister Sarah disappeared into herself again, the brief flicker of light extinguished. “When Mr. Kane says he has visited many countries, what he means is that he has committed sins there. He is not content to keep the rot confined to one small town, but must spread it everywhere, poisoning communities of decent people from Kyoto to Amsterdam.”

The world rocked explosively under Marcus' feet, and he felt the familiar swell of nausea begin to rise in his chest.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

How did he _know?_

Kyoto had been last year, and half the staff had gone, and it had been the talk of the town for a few months when they returned, so that one he could plausibly have picked up from local gossip.

But no one knew about Amsterdam.

Was he guessing? Picking the names at random of two cities famed as homes for legal sex work?

Or did he know, somehow, what saying the word out loud to Marcus would do?

No. He wasn't even looking at Marcus. His gaze was still fixed on the girl. But she, somehow - perhaps with the kind of fellow feeling that had caused him to recognize her own mannerisms on sight - was looking straight at him, with worry and comprehension in her eyes.

"Sweden at Christmastime must have been very nice," she blurted out, a little desperately, and the sheer heroism of it almost caused Marcus to choke up. To speak directly to him, with the preacher's eyes still fixed on her, scanning for any signs of sympathy toward his sinful guest, was an unspeakably brave act she was likely to be punished for later. She might not have had any idea what was going on inside his mind, but she'd known, somehow, without needing anyone to explain it, that one of the words Brother Zechariah had said was a word that hurt. So she'd redirected the preacher's ire back to herself. She'd fallen on her sword, to save him.

“I would be happy to host a Santa Lucia Day gathering,” said Marcus, focusing on the girl's face as a grounding anchor while he attempted to regulate his heartbeat again, “if you’d like to come and lead the procession. Everyone here would be welcome. We could figure out how to bake the special cookies, and I'm sure Mom could manage a wreath of candles for you. They wear their hair up in braids a particular way too, I believe.”

“Could I really?” Sister Sarah whispered, eyes shining with awestruck, dazed delight, as though he’d just offered to teach her to fly.

"Absolutely. It would be our pleasure," he said. And while he meant it sincerely - as a gesture of outreach to all the Daughters as much as a thank-you to her for the lifeline she'd just thrown him - there was something a little overwhelming in the sheer magnitude of her astonishment. He wondered how long it had been since the last time anyone offered Sister Sarah something just to be kind, or to make her smile.

What a sad, small, gray life for a kid.

But the moment was cruelly interrupted as Brother Zechariah gave a mocking laugh, accompanied by slow, lazy applause. “I thank you, Mr. Kane, for the master class you have just provided,” he said. “Truly, a work of art. This girl admires Saint Lucy because she seeks to emulate the bodily purity which made Lucy a saint. And in a matter of moments, you have perverted that admiration into pride and vanity, you have diminished a blessed virgin to nothing more than an excuse to wear pretty braids and receive the attention of strangers. Satan is clever, my girl. He will slither inside through any unguarded crevice and offer anything you desire, before sinking his fangs into your heart.”

 _Oh, fuck you_ , thought Marcus, as he watched Sister Sarah's sweet young face crumple, tears rising into her eyes.

Now it was _his_ turn to throw a lifeline.

“Lucy wasn’t a virgin,” Marcus said casually, and the reaction was _immediately_ gratifying. The girl's bowed head snapped back up, eyes now sharp with amazement, all signs of tears gone. Brother Zechariah whirled on him, lecture entirely forgotten, all his attention consumed by glowering at the sodomite in his office chair who had just committed a totally unexpected new level of heresy.

“I _beg_ your pardon?” snapped the preacher, in the coldest, most furious voice Marcus Kane had ever heard in his life, but it was too late to back out now.

_That's right, asshole. Don't look at her. Look at me._

"She wasn't a virgin," he repeated. "Not physically, at least. The term ‘virgin’ as applied to the early female martyrs was an honorific. It had nothing to do with her hymen being intact or not. She was a teenage enemy of the state in a Roman prison, and it’s broadly understood by historians that rape was one of the most common methods of torture used on women prisoners. So by the legalistic definition of virginity I expect you teach here,” he added, in a deliberately breezy tone, enjoying the apoplectic flush of rage sweeping across the preacher’s face, “you might be interested to learn that the 'Virgin Martyrs' probably weren’t.”

“Then how come they call them that?” demanded Sister Sarah, who was clearly having the most interesting day of her life, and it was a mark of just how furious the preacher was at Marcus that he let this interruption pass without comment.

“I suspect,” said Marcus, choosing his words carefully for the benefit of all the girls she would no doubt repeat this conversation to later, “that it was a way of honoring the power of their choice. Many cultures practice celibacy as a spiritual discipline, you know. Tibetan Buddhist monks do it too, for example, just off the top of my head. And ancient Greek temple acolytes. Saint Lucy chose not to have sex, or marry, or have children. That was a personal covenant between her and her God. And no one could take that identity away from her. Not even a man who forced her to have sex she didn’t want to have. It doesn’t mean that being a virgin is the only way a woman can be holy, or pure, or good, but it means that some Roman prison guard who got paid to hurt girls doesn’t have the power to change that covenant without her consent. I don’t think it’s about having sex or not having sex. I think it’s about the fact that women are more than the sexual value placed on them by men. I think it’s about the freedom to have your own relationship with God that nobody else can touch.”

This, finally, was too much, and Brother Zechariah stood up from his chair so abruptly that it tottered precariously and almost fell. "I think," he said coldly, in a voice so terrifying that Sister Sarah vanished back into the shadows again, “that we have had _quite_ enough of the bastardized theology of an unrepentant sodomite for one day.”

“Yes,” Marcus agreed, “I think we’re done here.”

He rose from his seat. They did not shake hands. As he turned to make his way back toward the door, he paused near the corner where the girl was huddled, and risked, one last time, addressing her directly. “I cannot imagine Brother Zechariah would object,” he said, “if I asked you to keep me in your prayers.”

The girl fidgeted uncertainly, looking up just enough to gauge the preacher’s reactions. He seemed displeased, but did not interfere.

“I will,” she said, without looking at him.

“I wonder,” he went on, in an elaborately casual tone, “if you know my favorite prayer, from when I was a kid. My mother taught it to me. Vera Kane is her name, by the way. It’s called the Memorare.”

“’Memorare,’” repeated the girl, sounding it out. “How does it go?”

 _“’Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,’”_ Marcus began, in a low voice which was full of meaning, causing the girl’s head to lift slowly until she was looking him in the eye, _“’that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of Virgins, my mother.’”_ He gave her a long, serious look. “I’ve forgotten the rest,” he said. “But that was the important part. I hope you’ll hold onto it, in case you need it.”

“We have our own prayers here,” Brother Zechariah interrupted, clearly convinced this was some kind of trap.

“Yes,” said Marcus. “I’m sure you do.”

He stopped in the doorway and turned back to cast one final glance at his adversary. The preacher stood ramrod-straight, perfectly framed by the red glow of the stained glass window behind him, the refracted sunlight licking at his inhumanly beautiful face like flames, and Marcus suddenly recalled with vivid clarity that Lucifer had been an angel first, before he fell.

“You’re forgetting one very important thing,” he said to Brother Zechariah.

“And what is that, Mr. Kane?”

“Matthew 21,” he said. “Whores get into the Kingdom of God before preachers do.”

Then he turned on his heel and left, the sound of Sister Sarah’s shocked gasp ringing in his ears like music as he made his way down the hall.


	5. Sinite Parvulos Venire Ad Me ("Let the children come unto me")

**TWELVE YEARS AGO**

“If you unroll those blueprints right next to me while I’m driving _one more time_ -”

“I’m not blocking anything,” Marcus retorted. “You can see fine.”

“It’s _raining,_ fucko. You _really_ want to die in a car accident because you couldn’t wait ten minutes to stare at those damn things again after staring at them all the way through dinner?”

Marcus cradled the large cardboard shipping tube to his chest and shot a cold glare at Charmaine beside him in the driver’s seat. “They can _hear_ you.”

“Oh, for the love of God, you’re acting like they’re your _actual_ children.”

“I’m just excited! I’ve been waiting to see these for six weeks.”

“Then you can wait to see them again until we get home.”

“Put the blueprints away, darling,” his mother reproached him mildly from the backseat, which caused Charmaine to cackle loudly.

“You always take her side,” complained Marcus at the exact same moment that Charmaine crowed, “She _always_ takes my side,” earning them both a maternal smack on the head.

Charmaine Diyoza had arrived at the Paradise Hotel to work as a concierge a month or two before Marcus had started there, and they had become instant friends. She was sharp and funny and had zero tolerance for bullshit, and once she got the lay of the land she’d appointed herself the unofficial human shield between Harry Kane and everyone who worked for him until the day he died. She was great with the clients, and did a brisk business with the kind of men who weren’t sure yet if they wanted to be spanked or flogged or tied up but definitely wanted to be bossed around. Vera doted on her like the prickly, foul-mouthed daughter she never had, and Marcus loved her like a pain-in-the-ass older sister he occasionally had sex with for work.

Very grudgingly, Marcus rolled the precious blueprints back up again, carefully sliding them back into their cardboard tube, but his enthusiasm was so potent that he almost immediately forgot he was pretending to be annoyed.

“There’s a professional lighting rig and everything.”

“You told us.”

“A proscenium, with wings and curtains. Big enough for real set pieces. A proper theatre.”

“Like fucking on Broadway,” Charmaine agreed. “Truly the dream.”

“Don’t make fun.”

Vera patted his shoulder. “It’s lovely to see you so excited about a project, dear.”

“Three. Three whole performing spaces.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I still don’t understand who you think is going to pay top dollar for porn onstage when porn on the internet is free,” said Charmaine, “but neither of you has had a flop of a business idea yet, so I’m willing to drive you all over Nevada to meet with contractors as long as it always comes with a free burger afterward.”

“You’re acting like we strong-armed you into this,” Marcus pointed out, “when as I recall, the way the conversation went was, ‘Please let me drive you to go pick up the plans from the contractor, if I have to fuck the Coopers again I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow.’”

“The Coopers are extremely partial to Charmaine,” said Vera cheerfully. “And exorbitant tippers.”

“The Coopers are _both professional basketball players,”_ she complained. “It is all I can do just to keep up. Let Callie take them for a night. No one ever tries to get into competitive feats of strength with Callie.”

“Just remember,” said Marcus, “tomorrow at breakfast when she’s rolling in cash and you’re not -”

But he never finished the rest of his sentence, because that was when Charmaine slammed on the brakes.

Everyone in the car jolted violently forward, and Marcus managed to whack himself in the face with the cardboard tube in his lap, but it was a sign of how distracted everyone was that no one even noticed.

“What the _hell,”_ he began, but Charmaine was already unfastening her seatbelt and pushing open the door.

“There’s someone in the road!" she yelled over her shoulder.

Marcus stared out the windshield into the darkness. And sure enough, there was. The headlights casting a sickly, too-bright glow on the pale shape in front of them, giving the peculiar sense of a deep-sea creature encountering a diver’s lamp for the first time.

It was a girl, he realized, as the white triangle resolved itself into a clearer shape. A girl kneeling, in the mud, in the middle of this lonely dirt road, barefoot and naked. She was facing away from them, and completely still. Rain streamed down through her long, tangled black hair and over her skin, but she seemed oblivious to it.

“Mom, give me your coat,” said Marcus. “Stay in the car.”

“There’s a blanket back here too,” said Vera, hastily shrugging out of her baggy green jacket and pulling a dusty, scratchy wool blanket out from under the driver’s seat, handing them both to Marcus, who jumped out of the car and raced over to where the girl was kneeling.

The sound of a motor nearby temporarily seized their attention, as a white van on the other side of the street slammed its doors shut and zoomed away the other direction.

“It’s the fucking cult,” Charmaine exclaimed, absolutely seething with rage, as she realized where they were and what lay at the end of the pockmarked gravel road they'd found themselves on. "They just _left_ her here. They just left a girl alone in the rain -"

"Charmaine, please don't do anything -"

"Hey fuck you, you sons of bitches!" she hollered after the van, and took off running, in an already-fruitless attempt to chase them down. “Sexist sacks of shit! Cowards!”

" . . . stupid," he finished under his breath, sighing, as he watched her sprint into the darkness and realized she'd left him completely alone with the girl.

She had not moved or spoken since they stopped the car, he observed uncomfortably. It was as though she had not noticed Charmaine at all. She just knelt, staring off into the distance, towards the Daughters of Eve's sprawling compound. Marcus could just barely make it out in the distance, beyond the van's escaping taillights; low, hulking dark shapes like sleeping beasts, a few windows lit, pale squares of light against a black night sky.

Marcus knelt down beside her, suddenly afraid that she would look up and stare at him with familiar eyes, that it would turn out to be Sister Sarah, still being punished three years later for the unforgivable sin of rescuing him from Brother Zechariah poking any further at the raw, open wound inside him marked "Amsterdam."

"Hey," he said gently, and placed a light hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

The girl _bolted._

At the very first brush of his skin against hers, she gave a violent, shuddering flinch that seemed to come from the depths of her whole body, and leapt to her feet, backing frantically away from him like a spooked horse.

Her wet black hair still hung around her face like a ghostly curtain, but he'd seen enough to know.

It wasn't her.

Her posture, however, was alarmingly similar. She seemed peculiarly unaware of her own nakedness, and the way her body seemed to contract inward on itself, recoiling from him, seemed very little to do with embarrassment or shame. It was blind animal panic. The same fear he'd seen when Brother Zechariah spoke to Sister Sarah.

There had been times in his life when he’d flinched at a touch that way, too.

They stood there looking at each other helplessly for a long moment - the terrified, confused girl, who still hadn't spoken; and the worried man facing her, afraid to move even a millimeter closer in case she took off running into the woods.

Vera, ignoring her son's request that she stay put, sensed that intervention was needed, and stepped out of the car into the rain to join her son, plucking the coat he still held uselessly in his hands and moving closer to the girl, holding it out to her. The girl's head lifted a little, and he could see a pair of flashing black eyes watching the woman's approach warily, but she didn't run away.

“You look cold, dear,” said Vera, in a calm, serene voice. “Would this help?”

Still half-concealed behind her hair, the girl looked from the coat to Vera to Marcus and then back to the coat again, as if scanning for traps, and although she did not run away, she also didn't make any move to take it. But she was facing them directly now, the whole expanse of her body now illuminated by the truck's headlights, and a few missing pieces of the story filled themselves in after that.

It had not escaped Marcus, when they first found her kneeling, that her back was clean. The whole knobby arc of her spine had been exposed to them as her head leaned forward, hair falling over her face, and that fish-belly-pale skin was smooth and spotless. They could see, now, that her arms and the palms of her hands were too, which made it clear she hadn't just fallen there, in the middle of the road. If any of this had been an accident, her hands would be a mess.

No, she had been taken out of that van, and she had been forced to kneel there, guided into position by other hands (male, quite certainly). But that was not the worst part.

The worst part was the front of her body, now plainly visible to both of them as she stared at the coat in Vera's hand like it was a ticking bomb. The worst part was the fist-sided smears of mud dotting her breasts, stomach and thighs, clumped so thickly in places that the rain hadn't yet washed it loose, and bits of gravel still stuck to her.

The worst part was the shadow of plum-colored bruises against her pale skin, emerging from beneath the trails of muddy water, where it was clear that at least a few of these marks had been made by something with much harder edges than a clump of mud.

He was still attempting to take all of this in when his mother placed a hand on his arm, pointing down at the ground where the girl had been kneeling. Someone had drawn a crude line all the way across the dirt road, with a sharp stick of some kind, hard enough to carve a thick gash that hadn't washed away yet. Above the line, in heavy block letters, they had carved the words “ITER IMPIORUM PERIBIT.”

_“‘The way of the wicked shall perish,’”_ said Vera quietly, causing the hair on the back of Marcus' neck to stand on end, and at the sound of those words the girl finally looked up, wet black curtain of hair parting, and met Vera's eyes for the first time. 

“If you’re still here when they come back,” she said dully, “they’ll stone you too.”

There was a kind of fog around her, though she seemed to be struggling to pull herself out of it, and she could not hold Vera's gaze for long; but she had spoken, finally, so that was something, even though her words made no sense to them.

_“Stone_ us?” Marcus repeated blankly.

She nodded. "You touched me," she explained. Numb, not accusatory. "And you," she said to Vera, "offered me clothing. That makes you both anathema.” Neither of them knew how to respond to this, but the girl did not seem to be waiting for an answer. "They'll shoot your friend," she added, turning to look down the long dark road where Charmaine had vanished. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

_"You're_ hurt," Marcus pointed out. She turned to him, brow furrowed, as though she had not, in fact, considered this.

“What’s your name?” asked Vera gently.

The girl hesitated. “Octavia,” she finally said.

“Do you have any family, Octavia? Is there someplace we can take you where you’ll be safe?”

Octavia lifted her head all the way, then, shaking the black hair out of her face, looking straight at Vera as though actually registering her presence for the first time, and for a moment the fog seemed to lift. "You tell me," she said, something almost like a flicker of grim humor in her voice. "My mother's dead. And _this_ -" She pointed at a dusky bruise the size of a walnut on the side of her breast - "was from my father. He has better aim than the others.”

Something truly alarming began to simmer inside Marcus Kane’s chest, at these words, a feeling he had never experienced before in his whole life.

He wanted to hit something.

This was new, and he did not like it. He also knew that he would never _do_ it, and he understood that applying the words “I want to hit something” to the complicated stew of emotions now roiling inside him was, to some extent, an oversimplification, and that when he explained this all to his therapist later she would remind him for the hundredth time that he was not his father. But still, there was a kind of fury bubbling inside him that cried out for a release that was _physical,_ in some way. To scream into the night, to punch the hood of the truck until he saw a dent in the metal, to sprint after Charmaine as fast as he could until his throat burned raw.

He did none of those things.

Instead, he squeezed his hands into fists as tightly as he could, counted to five, and released them.

“Octavia,” he said quietly, finally calm enough to articulate the question which had caused the volcanic eruption of anger inside his chest. “Is Brother Zechariah your father?”

“Oh.” She seemed to deflate a little at this. “So you know him."

"I've . . . encountered him before. Yes."

Octavia sighed, and gave herself a little shake, as though to dissipate the last traces of the fog that had been gathered around her, but stumbled a bit. Vera caught her arm to keep her from falling. “Sorry, sorry,” the girl mumbled. “I think the drugs are wearing off a little bit, but everything’s still a little blurry.”

_“Drugs?”_ Vera repeated, aghast.

Octavia nodded. “So I don’t fight back anymore." She seemed to be growing more lucid now. "First few times, I threw the stones back. Hit Brother Amos in the back of the head, once. Didn't end well.” She looked back over her shoulder down the road, where they could see the silhouette of Charmaine - who had clearly failed to catch up to the van - loping back through the darkness toward them. “You should get out of here. They’ll bring shotguns when they come back.”

Vera stared at her. “Octavia,” she said. “You cannot expect us to leave you here _.”_

Octavia shrugged. “Where else would I go?” she said helplessly, with a bitter little laugh. “The people in this town might not like my father, and they may not want the Daughters of Eve here, but everyone’s too afraid of him to do anything about it.”

“That’s not true,” said Marcus, and though he was attempting to be reassuring the girl didn't miss the faint note of defensiveness in it too. Her chin tilted up, and she looked him straight in the eye.

“Yeah?” she retorted defiantly. “How many times did you see us walking down the street, or through the grocery store, with our heads down and our faces veiled, with one of the Brothers marching us along in a row like ducklings? How many times did you shake your heads and think, oh, those poor pathetic girls, how terrible for them? How many times have you sat around your dinner table with your full plates of food, your glasses of wine, like normal comfortable people, and talked about us like we're just some freak show? How many times did you _do anything_ about it?”

She spat the words at him, angry and accusing, and it was clear she expected him to strike back. He watched her plant her bare feet in the mud, square her shoulders, and grit her teeth, and he suddenly realized that it was all unconscious. This was what her body did reflexively. She’d talked back to a man, and was braced to be hit for it.

_Jesus Christ,_ he thought to himself, _we failed this poor kid so badly._

And if he’d been able to pull back out of his own body just then - to step out of the living of his own story, and see the whole arc of it beginning to end - it would have been so clear, then, that this was the moment that set everything else in motion. Here, in this dirt road, facing a furious naked girl who unapologetically flung his own weakness back in his face, was the moment in which the town of Eden became a chess board, with Brother Zechariah on one side of it, and Marcus Kane on the other, and that all the things he'd said that day in his office about hoping to find a way for the two of them to coexist peaceably were hopelessly naive.

No decent person could coexist with this.

“You’re right,” he said to Octavia in a low voice, which clearly was not the response she was expecting. A little of the fight went out of her, at this. “There were times when I wanted to help, but I didn’t. I did nothing, when it might have made a difference if I had been braver. I’d like to do better now, if you’re willing to give me a chance. But I don’t blame you for not trusting us. Or trusting anyone in this town. We haven’t given you much reason to.”

“How do you think you can help me now?” she demanded, folding her arms across her chest and staring at him squarely. “No one can do anything to them, since they’re a church. They’ll sue for religious persecution. If I was still a kid, maybe the law would step in, if I ran away. But I spent the first six years of my life in the system. I don’t want to go back. Anyway, I’m eighteen, so there’s no place for me to go.”

“Yes, there is,” said Vera gently. “You can come home with us.”

“To where?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“I’m Vera Kane. And this is my son Marcus.”

The girl stared at them, jaw hanging open, for a long, long moment.

Then she burst out laughing. 

She laughed and laughed and laughed, until tears streamed down her face that were indistinguishable from the rain. She laughed until her narrow body doubled over, thin arms holding her stomach like she thought she might burst. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, there was a faint whiff of hysteria to it, but it was also the most alive she’d seemed since the moment they’d gotten out of the car.

“Shit,” said Charmaine, approaching. “Is she okay?”

The girl waved her off, still laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping away tears. “I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . of _all the people_ . . .”

“So our reputations precede us,” said Vera, the corners of her lip twitching like she was about to start laughing too. “Were you expecting horns and cloven hooves?”

“They’re going to kill me,” Octavia gasped through her increasingly wild laughter. _“Actually_ kill me. Do you know why I’m out here? My veil was crooked at dinner. That was it, this time. That's all I did.”

_“That’s_ why they did this to you?” Marcus demanded. “You showed your _hair?_ So they dragged you outside naked, in the rain, to pelt you with rocks and mud?”

“Showing your hair in the presence of men incites them to lust. I’m supposed to stay out here until the mortification of the flesh purges the demons of sensuality from my heart. But now the foul procurers of Satan have seen and touched my naked body, so they'll start the whole thing over again." She looked at Marcus. "You really need to go," she said. "Now. If Brother Daniel sees a man near me when the van comes back, he's going to want a fight. Father won’t hit you, but he won’t stop anyone else from doing it.”

“Which one is Brother Daniel?” asked Marcus, with a sinking feeling of inevitability in the pit of his stomach, confirmed by the next words out of Octavia's mouth.

“My husband,” she said wearily. “He’s the one who was driving the van.”

Marcus was not given an opportunity to respond to this, or even to digest it, because Charmaine cut in just then and pointed down the road.

"Headlights," she said. "Must've found their shotguns. And now they're headed back. Kid, we're out of time. Get in the car."

Octavia looked at Charmaine for a long moment, taking her in, before shifting her gaze to Vera, and finally fixing her dark gaze upon Marcus.

He looked at her, she looked at him, and something silently passed between them.

Charmaine had run into the dark for her, screaming curses, ready to fight on behalf of a total stranger. Vera had cracked through the wall surrounding her, and brought her back out of herself. But Marcus was the one whose measure she truly needed to take. Brother Zechariah recognized male power, and male power only. He would not back down from Vera, and he would not back down from Charmaine, but so far - even after that disastrous meeting in his office three years ago - he had never yet made a move against the only man in Eden more powerful than he was.

If he could not keep her safe, no one could, and both of them knew it.

He stepped in closer to her, ignoring Charmaine and Vera's fidgeting anxiety about the impending headlights, and put his hand on the girl's shoulder. This time, she did not flinch or pull away. She just looked at him, blunt and direct, with an expression in her black eyes that seemed to say, _Go on then. Hit me with your best shot._

“I swear to you,” he said softly, “On the Lord’s holy Bible, on my mother’s life, or anything else you want me to swear on. Your father will never, ever lay another hand on you. Neither will Daniel. Neither will anyone else. Not now, not ever again. I will keep you safe. I promise you. You will always, always be safe with me.”

She regarded him in silence for a long moment, and he felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable under the intensity of her gaze. Even under the residual effects of heavy tranquilizers, those dark eyes missed nothing, and he had the peculiar feeling that she was somehow reading between the lines of his words. Not just listening to what he said, but judging who he was.

Then she nodded briskly, took Vera's coat, and got into the car.

* * * * *

They came for her three days later.

Everyone had expected this, of course, and in a way the only real surprise was that it had taken them so long to trace Charmaine’s pickup truck. Marcus had acted swiftly, prepared for retaliation, and by the time they arrived he was more than prepared. There were security guards at the side and back entrances now, around the clock, and at the front of the property - where a twenty-foot wood-and-iron gate on a remote-controlled lock was the only way in - there were now cameras linked to a feed in the main office.

Octavia herself was holed up in the honeymoon suite, which happened to be empty this week, and was having the time of her eighteen-year-old life sleeping in a bed which was not a cot, bathing in a tub that was not an industrial sink, and learning about such miraculous inventions as caffeine and refined sugar. Callie and Diana had gone out shopping for her, so she had actual human teenager clothes now, and Vera had brought in the doctor to give her a full examination.

(Marcus had asked nothing about her marriage to Daniel, and she volunteered nothing; but the way she shook with relief when the doctor informed her that she was not pregnant told him everything he needed to know.)

He’d expected a level of, if not quite prudishness, at least innocence, about what exactly went on at the Paradise, since he couldn’t imagine that sex education among the Daughters of Eve had contained anything particularly useful. But he was wrong. Told all her life that the building was a kind of apocalyptic Hieronymous Bosch hellscape of licentiousness, she was instantly fascinated to discover that in fact the exact opposite was true.

“They’re just _normal people,”_ she whispered to Marcus, eyes wide, as she sat in the parlor, coffee and cinnamon rolls on the table in front of her (a kind of grandmother impulse had activated in Vera, who could not seem to stop feeding her) and watched through the glass doors as a new crop of guests checked in.

“Yeah,” he said, with a faint chuckle. “That’s kind of the point.”

“And you’re a normal person too.”

“More or less.”

“Father said you were an incubus.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Did he.”

“And that everyone in your presence was inflamed with lust and you coerced them into doing terrible, sordid things.”

“You’ve been in my presence for several days now,” he reminded her. “Have you been, at any point, inflamed with lust?”

“No.”

“Lesson one,” he said. “This is a place where sex is something that people _choose._ It’s something that brings people joy, and pleasure, and makes their lives better. It’s not something that’s done _to_ you, or forced upon you. By either incubi, or husbands.”

“I didn’t know there were places like that,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know that was . . . something girls got to have.”

“To enjoy sex.” She nodded, then busied herself with unraveling her cinnamon roll into one long strip of dough, to avoid looking at him. “I made you a promise, Octavia, and I meant it,” he said. “No one will ever touch you in a way you don’t want them to ever again. I won’t let them.”

“What if I do want them to?” she mumbled, mouth full of dough and raisins.

“Then we’ll teach you. So you know what you like. So you feel safe. So you understand how your body works, and how to ask for what you want.”

Octavia swallowed her cinnamon roll, and looked at Marcus. “Who does the teaching?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice casual, but the real, more specific question inside it was plain as day.

But because she could not quite make herself say it, it was impossible to tell which answer she was actually hoping to hear:

_Yes. If you wanted me, it could be me._

_No. I will never touch you that way._

“We don’t have to decide any of that right now,” he mumbled, a little lamely, which was the best he could manage, but there was no time to feel awkward about it any longer because at that precise moment, Vera at the reception desk, hung up the phone and gave him the look he'd been expecting for three days.

"Octavia," he said sternly. "Go to your room and lock the door. No matter what happens - listen carefully - no matter what, do not open it to anyone except me."

“What are you going to do?” she asked, biting her lip, looking suddenly very much younger than her eighteen years, and Marcus felt his heart break for her all over again. He, too, had had the same kind of near-telepathic panic response to his father’s presence, every past wound suddenly palpable on his skin at the same time, every scar rising back up again at once.

No one had been able to rescue him. But he could rescue her.

“I’m going to keep my promise,” he said.

* * * * *

Mostly to protect the guests and employees from being outed publicly, but also a little bit just to be a dick, Marcus did not open the gate for the Daughters of Eve and their white van. This had many benefits; it denied Brother Zechariah the opportunity to create a disruptive scene in the lobby, for one, by forcing the confrontation to take place on the side of the public road, where anyone driving past could see them. It also reinforced that the Daughters had stepped onto _his_ turf, where Octavia was wholly inaccessible to them behind impenetrable walls too high even to see over. It also bought him a few extra minutes, walking down from the lobby to the gates, to ensure that by the time he arrived his old friend Sheriff Miller was just pulling up to the curb.

Brother Zechariah had brought two men with him, one short and balding, the other a beefy red-faced linebacker of a guy who looked ready to smash the gate in, and who Marcus assumed was Daniel.

"Afternoon, Marcus. Afternoon, Brothers. Now, what seems to be the trouble here?" Miller asked pleasantly, his mild-mannered but formidable gaze shifting to each of the men one by one. Daniel and his bald companion fidgeted a little, and backed up a few steps toward the van, which amused Marcus. Plainly, they had been told to expect nothing more than a weakly-guarded harem full of girls and sodomites, and were unprepared for actual law enforcement - still less for the armed sheriff to be on the whores' side. Brother Zechariah might have the serene composure of a fanatic, but the other two were just garden-variety misogynists who definitely did not want to end up in the county jail.

_Fine,_ thought Marcus. _Cowards. Get back in the van. This is about him and me anyway._

And Brother Zechariah was a more resilient opponent.

“My daughter is being held here, against her will,” he said smoothly. “I’ve come to retrieve her.”

“Is she now,” said the sheriff. “Well, that would be a mighty big problem, if it were true, wouldn’t it, Mr. Kane?”

“Mighty big," agreed Marcus.

“Fortunate, then, that when I met with the girl yesterday, and took her statement, she had nothing but kind things to say about how the Kanes have been treating her, and that they’ve allowed her to stay as long as she chooses.”

“Well, that settles that,” Marcus said cheerfully. “So it seems you gentlemen wasted your time coming out here for nothing. So sorry for the trouble. Bye, now.”

Brother Zechariah ignored him, but stared coldly at the sheriff. “You cannot possibly allow this farce to proceed,” he protested. “The Kane family's wickedness is well known. Of course they would manipulate an innocent handmaid of the Lord to say anything that serves their purposes, and turn her against her own family.”

“She signed an affidavit,” said the sheriff. “Documenting years of abuse. Y'all are lucky she decided not to press charges. I won’t deny that I told her she should. But she doesn’t want to deal with lawyers, nor I suspect does she ever want to have to see or think about you again. And that’s her choice. But she's definitely not going back with you.”

“How _dare_ you,” seethed the red-faced linebacker, surging forward as though to attack the sheriff, and only a quiet hand from Brother Zechariah on his arm restrained him. “She is my _wife._ She belongs to _me.”_

Marcus stepped forward, standing toe to toe with him, feeling that same tidal wave of anger sweep through him again that he'd felt when Octavia showed him the bruise from her father. The anger that cried out for physical release. The anger that was now murmuring, _Please. Do it. Come on. Give me a reason to punch you in the face. I don't even care if David arrests me. It would be worth it._

But a calmer, saner, wiser voice - the one he always listened to, the one he'd come, over the past few years, to imagine as that of his better angels - prevailed.

_Doing violence to a violent man on her behalf will not make Octavia feel safe with you,_ he imagined Abby's warm, practical voice saying to him. _It will only make her more certain that every man turns violent eventually._

_You don't need to hit him to win this. You already figured out how to win this. You know exactly what to do._

_Be the man you told her you were._

He clenched his hands into fists, took a deep breath, counted to five, and released them.

"If she's your wife," he said to Daniel, in a perfectly calm and even voice, "then surely you can provide the sheriff with a copy of your marriage certificate." The man's glower turned even more furious, and he seethed in impotent silence. "Unless you don't have one," Marcus went on. "Perhaps because you married her three years ago. When she was fifteen. Which is illegal."

“Not with her father’s consent,” said Brother Zechariah smugly, as though he'd scored a point, not realizing this was _exactly_ what Marcus had hoped he'd say. “I gave my daughter to Brother Daniel in holy matrimony. No laws were broken.”

"Fine," said Marcus. "Show us the paperwork."

Brother Zechariah hesitated, and Marcus could not entirely suppress the surge of triumph in his chest as the pause dragged on and the man appeared, just for a moment, to be floundering.

“It was not . . . a secular marriage,” he finally said. "I performed the ceremony myself."

"As you are, no doubt, licensed to do by the State of Nevada?" suggested Sheriff Miller. "I would certainly hope?"

"At a guess, I'd say no," said Marcus. "I'm thinking probably because Brother Daniel here has at least a couple other wives."

Total. Fucking. Silence.

It was glorious.

"The Daughters of Eve practice our own matrimonial covenant," Brother Zechariah finally muttered stiffly. "For the state to threaten religious persecution against our sacred rites -"

"You can't have it both ways," said the sheriff. "Demanding to be exempt from the law when you feel like it but then expecting its protection later. If she's legally married to this fellow, fine. Show me. But then you're obligated to abide by the laws that govern civil marriages. If she's married in some ceremony y'all do on your own, with no bearing outside your compound, also fine. But then he has no claim on her once she steps off it."

“She’s also been examined by a doctor,” Marcus added, with quiet menace in his voice. “You may be right that marriage at fifteen - _if_ you had a certificate, and _if_ it was approved by a judge - isn’t against the law. But statutory rape quite definitely is.”

“You cannot possibly prove that Brother Daniel laid a hand on her until after she came of age,” said Brother Zechariah.

"Octavia's _word_ is proof," said Marcus. "Her own account of what happened to her is proof of what happened to her."

"She consented to the marriage."

"Coercion and emotional abuse invalidate consent."

“Legally,” said Sheriff Miller, stepping in between Marcus and Brother Zechariah, sensing it was time to bring the temperature down a notch, "in the absence of any kind of paperwork proving - well, anything, all I’m seeing here is an adult woman who left an abusive home and came to stay with her friends of her own free will. That means, of course, that any attempt on your part to return to these premises to pursue this matter further would be viewed, by the law, as both the harassment of a legal business, and attempted criminal abduction. Are we clear?"

“Come on,” muttered the bald man, piping up for the first time, “the girl ain’t worth it,” and dragged Daniel - who was shaking with barely-suppressed rage - back toward the van.

But Brother Zechariah stared at Marcus Kane with a kind of quiet, ice-cold intensity that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, just a little.

“I will not,” he finally said, “forget this moment.”

Marcus was undeterred. "Neither will I."

“You think you show care for Octavia by seducing her with worldly pleasures. Sweets, a comfortable bed, these lush gardens. You pleasure her body, but endanger her soul. No doubt," he added, with casual malice, "you have already had your sinful way with her. I would expect nothing less, after all."

Only Sheriff Miller's grip on his arm and Abby's stern voice in his head prevented him from completely unraveling at this. He was _shaking_ with rage.

“She came to us in _trauma,”_ he spat at the preacher. “Just a tap on the shoulder, and she panicked like I was about to hit her. Whatever you do to girls, out there on the other side of your walls, you make them terrified of being touched by men. Sister Sarah looked at me the same way. And maybe it makes you feel powerful, to watch girls flinch and panic when you come near them. Maybe that's what you think being a man is like. But we are not like that here. If I strike a woman with a whip, it's because _she asked me to._ She selects the whip, she tells me how she likes it, we rehearse it together, she gives me a code word that means 'stop' in case she needs it, and the only pain she experiences is the one she actively chose, because it brought her pleasure. And no matter how hard the whip hits the skin," he said, his voice cold and deliberate, "she will never, ever flinch the next time she sees me, for fear that I'll hurt her again." Revulsion twisted the other man's pale features, but Marcus was in too deep to stop. "I know what you think of us, Brother Zechariah," he said. "What you have always thought. And up until now, I have not particularly cared. But _you_ are the ones who hurt Octavia. You are the ones who taught her to be afraid. As it happens - and not that it matters at all - but no one here has touched her. If they do, it will be at her initiating and of her own free will. That’s the way we do things here.”

“The Paradise,” Sheriff Miller interjected, before Brother Zechariah could respond to this, “is a respectable, law-abiding establishment. People have all kinds of personal opinions about the fact that we’ve got a brothel in our town, and I say, well, if you don’t think it’s right, ain’t nobody forcing you to go there. But the fact of the matter is that they’ve broken no rules, never hurt anyone, and we’ve never once had a report of mistreatment here. You, on the other hand,” he added sternly, “sent a girl out naked in the middle of the road where she could have frozen to death or been hit by a car. She had bruises all over her body and was severely dehydrated and malnourished. It’s plain as day she’s better off here. She’s over eighteen, you don’t own her, and she doesn’t want to leave, so that’s the end of that. I suggest you get in your van and be on your way.”

After a long, long silence, Brother Zechariah finally turned his back on them, and the van drove away without another word from any of them.

Marcus and the sheriff stood there and watched until the last traces of the dust kicked up by their wheels on the dirt road had faded.

“You did a good thing,” said the sheriff finally. “Though possibly not a wise one.”

“Yeah,” said Marcus. “That occurred to me.”

“He’d be an ugly enemy to have.”

“I think that ship has sailed.”

“What’s going to happen to the girl?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Listen,” said the sheriff. “I like you. I like your mama. Never liked your daddy, but he’s dead, so that don’t matter much anymore. But you’ve made a good thing here, Marcus, and you know I don’t have any problem with what you do, or with a place like this being part of our town. If I can protect you, I’ll protect you. But you better not give that man a reason to turn public sentiment against you. I can’t fight gossip.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said the sheriff, very carefully not looking at him, “that if a month from now young Octavia is tied to a bedpost in a white nightie while you whip her bare bottom and then have at her like an animal, Brother Zechariah will holler from the rooftops about the evil pimp who turned his angelic daughter into a sex slave. And even if that isn’t what happened, it will be a story that’s very comfortable for people to believe.”

“I can’t do anything about what people believe.”

“Sure you can. You just have to get out ahead of him.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning," he said, "give Octavia a different narrative. It would be a lot harder for her father to cast her as a damsel in distress if she was at the _other_ end of the whip." Marcus turned to look at the other man. This was an angle that had not occurred to him. "By the way," the sheriff added, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. "Not that it's for me to tell you how to do your job, or that I think anything you do here is unethical. But it would complicate things more than you'd like if you ever -"

"I'm not going to fuck her," said Marcus. "Not now, not ever. Whether she stays here or not."

"Good," said the sheriff, clearly relieved. "Make both your lives a lot easier."

Marcus nodded absently in agreement, but he already knew that wasn't the real reason why this plain, simple fact - that he would never lay a hand on Octavia in that way - had suddenly emerged in his mind with such startling clarity.

Because he could do it. He was good with trauma survivors, actually. Gentle and nurturing and a good teacher. He'd helped many people, over the years, of all genders, learn to find pleasure and joy in sex again. He could make it so good for Octavia. He could help her heal the wounds left by Daniel. He could teach her to love it. He could give her this.

But the minute he touched her skin, he would prove Brother Zechariah's ugliest accusation correct. _Of course he only brought her here for that. Of course that's the only thing he could want from an eighteen-year-old girl. What did we expect, from a godless sodomite? It was only a matter of time. He stood in my office and quoted the Word of God, but all of it was a lie. He was a serpent in the garden, biding his time._

No.

He did not know yet what Octavia would be to him, but he was determined that whatever it was, it would not be that.

_Be the man_ she _thinks you are. Not the man_ he _thinks you are._

Maybe Octavia did not need him to use sex to heal her. Maybe there were other ways. Maybe all she needed was for him to carve out a safe place for her, where she could heal herself.

* * * * *

She waited until she heard his voice before opening the door, just as he'd told her to.

"It's over," he said. "Take a walk with me."

She grabbed another cinnamon roll for the road (another three had managed to disappear from the plate in is absence, the only visible indicator of how nervous she might have been) and followed him down the stairs.

Octavia was intuitive by necessity, the way he was; she didn't need him to tell her not to say anything until they'd found a place in the lush gardens where they were out of the guests' earshot, to avoid raising the alarm about religious zealots outside the gates and kill everyone's sexy buzz for the day. She just trotted quietly along at his heels until they reached a secluded fountain ringed by a low mosaic bench, where the gentle splash of water helpfully muffled the sound of their conversation. Not that it would matter, since this corner of the grounds was currently deserted, but still.

Marcus took a seat on the bench, facing out into the garden. Octavia joined him, temporarily shoving the whole of her cinnamon roll into her mouth for safekeeping as she rolled up the cuffs of her jeans and sat down at his side, facing the opposite direction, letting her feet dangle in the cool water.

Once settled, she busied herself for a moment with unraveling her cinnamon roll, plucking the raisins out of the soft sticky dough and popping them into her mouth one by one.

"I have never met anyone who eats cinnamon rolls the way you do," he said.

"I'd never had one before," she answered. "I didn't know there was a wrong way."

"No," he said. "I guess there isn't."

Silence followed.

“Did he bring Daniel?” she finally asked.

“Yes.”

"Did he try and punch you?"

"No. Though for a minute there I did consider punching _him."_

"But you didn't," she said, unfazed, and the fact that it wasn't even a question did something to his heart. "I knew you wouldn't."

"I _wanted_ to. I'm not a saint."

"Of course you wanted to," she said sagely. "Daniel is very punchable." Kane could not suppress a small chuckle at this. "Anyway, wanting's not doing," she said. "Do you think they’ll come back?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think they will.”

Octavia took a bite of her cinnamon roll and chewed in thoughtful silence for a long time, kicking her bare feet in the splashing water.

“You’re the first person who’s ever made a promise to me and kept it,” she finally said.

“I don’t want to be the last. You deserve to have people in your life who you can trust, Octavia. We have a few options, but where we go from here is up to you. We can help you track down any other family or friends you might have outside of Eden who might be able to take you in. We can ask around with other people we know in the community - safe people, ones we trust - to help you find a job, if you want to stay in town. We can give you money and a plane ticket to any other place in the world you want to go, if you want to start over someplace else.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, turning toward him and regarding him with genuine puzzlement. “Why would I go somewhere else besides here?”

“Because,” said Marcus patiently, “this is a brothel.”

“Yes.”

“You will, eventually, at some point, need to find a job.”

“I could work here.”

“Octavia, I have a finite number of jobs available to offer here which are not sex work. I can offer you part-time hours at the front desk, but that’s pretty much it.”

“That’s fine,” she said agreeably. “I don’t mind starting there.”

_“Starting?”_

“How old would I have to be?” she asked. “To do the other kinds of work.”

“Why do you _want_ to?”

_“You_ like it, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t raised to believe that my body was sinful and evil.”

“Right, but if you _had_ been, wouldn’t it feel like kind of a miracle if one day you realized there were places where that wasn’t true?”

"Take a minute and consider the potential ramifications of what you're proposing here. How your father would react, once he found out. This wouldn't be a secret we could keep for long."

"Oh," she said, and looked away with the ghost of a blush. She was quicker on the uptake than he had been, and it was clear she'd already put together the same two and two that Miller had.

"I've had sex with most the people I work with, over the years," he said. "It's just my job. People who are good at this work, we learn how to keep everything contained with strong, healthy boundaries. Work life and personal life. Sex can be very simple, like that, between two people with no baggage who are on the same page. But I don't think it could ever be simple between you and me, Octavia. It would give too many people too much leverage over us."

"He already thinks we have," she said flatly. "Doesn't he."

"Does that bother you?"

"I don't like that he thinks that's the only reason you brought me here," she said. "I don't like that he thinks that's the only reason you cared about me. That you helped."

"Yeah."

"Your mom was there that night too. Charmaine was there too. But he just wants to make it about you."

Marcus looked out into the garden, watching the light breeze ruffle the vivid green leaves of the palm trees. "I don't know what it is, exactly," he said. "There's like a tug-of-war between him and me. I didn't ask for it, but it's there."

"Well, you won this round."

"But there will be another one."

"All the more reason to keep me around," she said. "You'll need all the help you can get."

"Octavia."

"I can work at the front desk. You need the help. You said. I'd be good at it. And no other stuff, until I’m . . .” She waited expectantly.

“I don’t know,” Marcus said, throwing up his hands helplessly. “Twenty-one.”

“Why?”

“Whatever. I don't know. You asked for a number. It’s our nation’s arbitrary marker of full adulthood. What do you want from me?”

“Twenty-one, then. And in the meantime, you’ll teach me things.”

_The other end of the whip,_ he thought. Diana might appreciate having an apprentice. And it was hard to deny it would make him feel better if Octavia learned how to fight.

“Are you _sure_ about this?” he pressed her again, turning to look at her, meeting her dark gaze with his own. “There’s a whole world outside Eden that you’ve never seen. This can’t be the life you imagined for yourself.”

Octavia looked at him in silence for a long time, then turned away again to stare at the fountain.

“When my mother brought me to Eden,” she began, “she told me my father was a saint. She said he was the holiest man in the world, that he was building a new kingdom of God on earth, and that the children raised in his light would be special. Blessed. And I believed it. I believed it the first time I was screamed at by one of his wives for making eye contact with her. I believed it when Brother Eli called me a Jezebel when I was ten years old because I laughed during quiet time. I believed it the first time I was stoned in the middle of the street, and the second, and the tenth. And then one day, I just . . . stopped believing it. I thought to myself, if what my father was doing was right, then why isn't he _happy?_ Why aren't any of them _happy?_ Why is this such a place of anger and coldness and loneliness and hate? Why is there no love in any of these rooms? That's how I knew. I knew it couldn't be a holy place, if there was no love there."

She looked back at Marcus, and scooted toward him on the bench, the tiniest bit, barely noticeable, but it brought her close enough for her arm to bump lightly against his. “I didn’t have very good luck with the saints,” she said to him. “I thought I might try the sinners for awhile, if that's all right with you.”

He moved in a little too, until the tip of his thumb just barely grazed the edge of her little finger where their hands rested on the mosaic bench.

"There's love here for you, Octavia," he said. "Stay."

* * * * *

The next crisis came a week later.

Marcus had barely stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him when his mother materialized at his side. _“Jesus,"_ he exclaimed, "you scared the _crap_ out of me. Why are you lurking?”

“Something . . . happened,” said Vera evasively. “While you were at the bank.”

“Something bad?”

“Not bad. Complicated.”

“Is Octavia okay? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” she said, “but you need to come up to my sitting room with me. There are . . . people here.”

“Mom, there are always people here.”

“This is different.”

Marcus sighed and followed his mother up the stairs. “Why are you being cryptic?”

“A girl came to the door,” she said. “A few hours ago. She has some others with her. I took them upstairs immediately. You’ll see why when we get there. She says that you told her to come to the Paradise and ask for me.”

Marcus’ brow furrowed. “It’s not ringing any bells,” he said. “Is she a client?”

“Most definitely not. But she knows who we are. She asked for me by name.”

“And she says _I_ sent her?”

“Yes,” said Vera, with a wry grin, as they reached the door to her apartment. “She says that three years ago, you told her that never was it known that anyone who fled to my protection was left unaided.”

And then the door opened, and there she was, the very same girl, in the very same gray hooded cape, like no time had passed, like she hadn't aged a day, except that instead of skulking in the shadows of the preacher's office, she was standing in the middle of his mother's room, holding a mug of hot cocoa and looking right at him as though she'd been waiting for him to walk through the door.

"The van came back without Octavia," she said to him. "And all the men were mad. That was how I knew."

Marcus stared at her. "Knew what?"

"That he'd _lost,"_ she said, eyes sparkling with something like excitement. "That he wasn't God. That somewhere there was a place we could get to where he couldn't come for us. Someone who would protect us. So we came to your mother, just like you said we should."

The "we" finally penetrated his confusion, and he looked around the room to find it more full of children than it had ever been in all his life. On the sofa was a cluster of three other girls in the same gray capes, while Octavia, on the floor, held a pair of small boys in her lap. "I couldn't leave until I had someplace safe to take my brothers,"she explained. "That's why I didn't just run after you that day. That's why it took so long." Her voice was hesitant, and she seemed to finally notice that Marcus hadn't said anything. "I thought . . . I thought we could be safe here too, like Octavia," she said. “I thought that’s what you were trying to say.”

Marcus looked helplessly at his mother.

"Darling, why don't you help yourself to another cookie from the tin," said Vera to the girl. "I need to speak with my son, just for a moment. We'll be right back."

Marcus stepped back out of the room, head spinning and closed the door behind him.

“You see,” said Vera, “why I said it was complicated.”

“There are _minors,”_ Marcus hissed.

“I know.”

“None of the men had any legal claim over Octavia, because she's eighteen. That’s the only reason any of this -"

“You know as well as I do,” said Vera sternly, “that no one else is going to help those poor things if we don't."

“How are we going to hide nineteen children in a brothel, Mother? Did you think this through?”

_“Six,_ Marcus, don’t exaggerate. And we’re not,” said Vera. “Obviously. This is the first place he'll come looking, and the children will have to be gone when he does. We’re going to take them somewhere else, where they’ll be safe.”

“They’re going to end up in the system.”

“Only if we call the police.”

Marcus looked at her for a long time, the meaning of her words suddenly, brutally clear. “We’ve never broken the law before,” he reminded her. "Even Dad never did."

“I know.”

“The only reason we’ve been able to make this place into something is that nothing we’ve ever done here has been illegal.”

Vera folded her arms and stared up at her son. “So you’re refusing to help?”

Marcus sighed. “No,” he said, “I’m just saying it out loud so later neither one of us can say that we didn’t know what we were getting into when we made this decision.”

“We’re declaring war on Brother Zechariah,” said Vera heavily. “I do realize that. I just don’t think there’s any way around it.”

Marcus thought about that day three years ago when he’d made his first and last attempt to extend an olive branch to the Daughters of Eve, and how the girl had lit up at the notion of a world beyond those walls. She’d waited all this time, she’d endured God knew what, because until the van had returned without Octavia in it, no one had realized that there was anyone willing to protect them from Brother Zechariah.

And she was here now. And he had made a promise to her - a holy promise, folding in both the Virgin Mary and his mother, which meant he would be doubly busted if he failed her now.

He turned the knob and stepped back inside.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Vera asked the girl, who was still standing on the carpet where he'd left her, wringing her hands anxiously.

“Sister Sarah.”

Vera shook her head. “You’re too old to have been born in the compound,” she said. “You had a name before. Sister Sarah is what _he_ called you. What was your real name?”

“Harper,” said the girl, as Vera gently unfastened the thick knot of her gray cloak and pulled it off to reveal a cascade of golden hair, a sweet smile, and a pair of bright blue eyes that turned to Marcus and looked, for the first time, almost hopeful. “My real name is Harper.”


	6. Osculetur Me Osculo Oris Sui (“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth”)

**FOUR YEARS AGO**

“The guy in the corner is checking you out,” said Charmaine, setting another Hendricks and tonic in front of Marcus on a green cocktail napkin with a black shamrock printed on it.

Marcus didn’t even bother taking the bait. “Not interested, Charmaine.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s good for you to keep in practice. Make ‘em work for it a little, you know? Keep the muscles limbered up.”

“Stop it.”

“Or I could just go over there with your business card and your rate sheet and tell him he’s in luck because you’re a sure bet.”

_“Stop it.”_

“You know I keep it on the bulletin board in the staff room.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I miss you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Charmaine laughed and patted his hand. “I’m happy here.”

“I know you are. You’ve really turned this place around. Mom would be proud of you.”

“Don’t make me cry at work, you asshole.”

“I mean it. She always said you had a great head for business.”

“Well, I learned it from her,” said Charmaine. “And I know there were a lot of ghosts in this place. For her, and for you.”

“They’re gone now,” said Marcus truthfully, looking around him and taking in the place for the hundredth time since the bar reopened a few years ago.

Charmaine had always been good with numbers, so Vera had taken the younger woman under her wing and paid for her to take bookkeeping classes at the community college. It had been Vera who suggested, after the Shamrock sat empty for so long the owner was desperate enough to take any offer, that if Charmaine ever wanted a project she might be just the person to buy it. Now, what had once been a seedy hole-in-the-wall - primarily known for dollar pitchers and the least sanitary public restrooms in western Nevada - had been transformed into a warm, comfortable hangout which retained enough of its faded mid-century charm to appease the locals. Only now it was scrupulously clean, with very good beers on tap, and a real kitchen where Charmaine turned out the best burger in town. George, the now-elderly proprietor of the motel next door, adored her like she was his own daughter, on account of the fact that not once since she took over had he broken up a fight in the parking lot or lost a customer over the noise. Charmaine ran her bar with a firm hand, and no one who caused trouble was ever invited back. 

She’d been wary of inviting Marcus to the opening, and he’d been wary of attending; neither one of them was sure how powerful the old bar’s ghosts were really going to be. But the moment he stepped across the threshold, he exhaled in palpable, physical relief. The table where it happened was gone. The glasses were different. The buzzing, blinking Coors Light sign that had hung behind Harry Kane’s head was replaced by a cheeky plaster taxidermy of a triceratops. He would always feel a kind of hot-cold pang in his chest at the sight of the parking lot and the front door, which were so charged with violent memories ( _ambulances, police cars, people screaming, George shouting over the din, “for God’s sake, has anyone called Vera?”_ ), and this could not be erased by a coat of fresh paint and a brand-new sign which replaced “Shamrock Bar & Grill” with simply “The Shamrock.” 

His hands would always shake, a little, when he walked in the door. There was nothing Charmaine could do about that.

But it got easier, bit by bit, his reactions gradually becoming less intense. Now, after Charmaine had been at the wheel for two years, he experienced little more than a quickening of his pulse and a faint tremble in his fingertips, and by the time his old friend greeted him, it had faded. 

“He’s still staring,” she said, pulling him out of his reverie, and this time Marcus turned around, quite casually, as though checking the score of the basketball game on the television behind him. 

Sure enough, there was a man at the farthest booth in the back corner, and he was very definitely staring.

“Must be new in town,” said Charmaine. “I’ve never seen him before. If he was from here, he’d know who you were and just walk right up and ask. But he’s trying to pick you up the old-fashioned way, which means he’s got no idea who he’s checking out. Which is adorable. Go say hi.”

“I told you, I didn’t come here for a hookup. I just want to have a drink and watch the game.”

“Who said anything about a hookup?”

“He did,” said Marcus. “With his eyes. I can always tell.”

“Then go for it, for Christ’s sake. He’s hot.”

“I had sex four times today, Charmaine, I’m tired.”

“You poor lamb.”

“Stop it.”

“I have to go over there and check on him,” said Charmaine, stepping out from behind the counter, “want me to put in a good word for you?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“No, this will be fun. Be right back.”

“Charmaine, if you -” he began, but it was too late, she was already gone, wearing the smile she reserved for mischievously fucking with people.

Marcus put his head in his hands, and did not turn around.

He hadn’t lied. He really wasn’t here for a hookup. It had been a full day, both his back and his ass were sore, and he’d come down to the Shamrock to get away for a few hours and take an introvert break.

But still.

Through the mirrored glass behind the shelves of liquor bottles, glittering like jewels in the warm glow of the retro light fixtures, Marcus discreetly watched Charmaine make her way over to the booth where the young man sat. He was, and this was undeniable, wildly sexy. Quite a bit younger than Marcus, but not _young_ -young. Twenty-six or seven, if he had to guess. Younger men liked Marcus, who, hovering on the cusp of forty, was very, very good at the daddy thing. Thick, soft beard, warm brown eyes, a wardrobe of flannel shirts he wore rolled up to the elbow. The exact right mix of firm and gentle to appeal to someone who wanted to be very tenderly dominated. 

The young man in the corner looked very much like he did.

He was tall, Marcus could tell that even while he was seated, with thick black curls that were just long enough to make him look charmingly disheveled. His face was sprinkled with a constellation of freckles, visible even from this distance in this light. His lips, as he smiled politely up at Charmaine and indicated that no thank you, he did not need another drink just yet, were plush and soft and full, and Marcus was annoyed at himself for the instantaneous pressure behind the fly of his jeans as he watched the young man lift his half-full pint to take a sip.

It was a really nice mouth.

 _Oh, for God’s sake,_ he thought to himself, exasperated. _Get it together._

Charmaine returned just then, beaming with mischief, and began to fix him a fresh gin and tonic without asking. 

“I don’t need another drink.”

“Sure you do,” she said briskly. “I told him all about you, by the way.” Marcus shot her a dark glare. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your name. Though I might have mentioned your . . . occupation.”

“What did you tell him I was?”

“President of the Eden Valley Chamber of Commerce, of course,” she said merrily - a fact she never got tired of repeating, since it was, in fact, true.

“Charmaine -”

“Oh for God’s sake, I didn’t out you to a stranger, I’m not going to ruin your fun. Here.” She set his drink down in front of him, a brimful pint of amber ale beside it. “On the house,” she said. “Free excuse to flirt. You’re welcome.”

“For the last time, I’m not interested.”

“He’s reading Joseph Campbell’s _The Hero With a Thousand Faces_.”

“.. . . Fine. One drink.”

Charmaine laughed. “You’re predictable as hell, buttercup,” she said dryly. “Godspeed.”

* * * * *

He ran through all the available options on the journey from bar to booth, and by the time he arrived he’d decided to opt for blunt honesty. “These were on the house, because my friend Charmaine is a nosy meddler,” he said, setting down the drinks. “Hi.”

“Hi,” laughed the young man, who did indeed have a copy of _The Hero With a Thousand Faces_ sitting beside the remnants of his burger. This immediately endeared him to Marcus, who was always instinctively partial to other people who liked to read in bars. If there hadn’t been a basketball game tonight, he would be doing the same thing.

Damn Charmaine for knowing his type.

“Sorry you had to come all the way over here, with that,” the younger man went on, as he took the fresh pint. “I didn’t know she was going to - I mean, I won’t say no to a free beer, but I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” said Marcus. “Can I join you?”

The young man nodded, sliding closer to the wall to make room, before tensing up slightly, shooting a helpless look at the empty seat on the other side of the booth as though suddenly realizing he’d given away too much by inviting Marcus to sit beside him, instead of across. It was this, finally - not the book, not the freckles, not the way he’d been staring, not the plush lips which were even more inviting up close - which finally made Marcus’ decision for him.

An invitation to come closer, followed by a flash of panic at the fear of overreaching. 

Definitely his first time picking up a man in a bar.

So Marcus sat beside him, and draped a casual arm over the back of the booth, not touching him, not making real contact just yet, but giving him a subtle, gentle confirmation. _Yes, you guessed correctly._ _Yes, this is okay. No, there's no pressure. Let’s just see where this goes._

The young man visibly relaxed, and took a long swig of his beer. Marcus drank his gin and tonic. The silence shifted from awkward to pleasantly companionable. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” Marcus said after a few moments. “Are you local?”

He shook his head. “Passing through,” he said. “Staying at the motel next door. I’m just here for the night, I have a job interview tomorrow.”

“Here in town?”

“Yeah.”

But he didn’t throw the ball back, or offer any further information, so Marcus didn’t push. It was a relief, frankly, not to have to navigate the awkward “so, what do you do?” conversation. He wasn’t ashamed of his work in the least; he loved the Paradise, and was proud of what he and his mother had built there. But he was also smart and cautious, particularly around strangers, and on the whole it was something he preferred to wait to bring up. Because he very definitely wasn’t being _solicited_ here; the young man with the beer and the book and the freckles had no idea that Marcus made his living turning men just like him inside out with sexual pleasure. He wasn’t trying to navigate the “how do I hire you” conversation. He was just a guy alone in a small-town bar, looking for a pleasant way to pass the time.

“I’m Marcus, by the way,” he said.

“Bellamy,” said the young man, looking directly at him for the first time through jet-black eyelashes.

Marcus found himself shifting his body closer, drawn in by the boy’s dark gaze. Then, to break the flicker of tension, he added, “Grad student, writer, or just regular nerd?”

The younger man stared. “What?”

“The book. Those are the only three categories of person I’ve ever seen reading Joseph Campbell. I’m a three, by the way.”

Bellamy laughed at this, for the first time, really laughed, and Marcus felt something begin to unfurl deep inside his chest, a thing between hope and worry, a blossoming conviction that he might turn out to want more from this freckled stranger than those beautiful lips wrapped around his cock, or those strong, slender hands clutching a pair of motel bedsheets so hard their knuckles turned white.

 _Fuck,_ he thought desperately. _I think I_ like _him._

Marcus didn’t actually date much. At all, really. This had always been a source of quiet disappointment to Vera, who sublimated her burning desire for grandchildren into aggressively mothering all the young people in her employ. But he had a public, visible job, and this was a small town; plenty of people who appreciated what the Paradise did for the community and didn't particularly object to its goings-on might still balk, at least a little, at bringing Marcus Kane home to meet the parents at Thanksgiving. Besides, any spare minute that he wasn’t with a client or performing or rehearsing or managing his staff, he was at meetings with the police bureau or the Mayor’s office or - as Charmaine had lightly teased him - running the local chamber of commerce. Vera had worked hard to build a relationship with the town of Eden where her employees could feel safe and respected everywhere they went, and where her business was treated as legitimate. With few exceptions, she had mostly succeeded, but Marcus was determined to pick up where she had left off. He envisioned the Paradise as a beacon of possibility, a boon to the tourist economy and local small businesses and potentially even an incentive to draw new permanent residents. It was a big job, shifting the reputation of the town’s sole brothel - legal though it might be - from a fun, naughty little quirk, into something the town might actually be proud of, something that could put Eden on the map.

All in all, this left very little time for a personal life, and it had only grown worse since Vera died, because now everyone who lived at the Paradise worked for him. And no matter how dearly he loved them, there were times he wished he could be a person first, with someone, instead of a boss. Nothing could fill the hole the loss of his mother had left in his life, but he tried. He threw himself into work, which wasn't enough; he had lots and lots of sex - most of it very good, because Marcus was very good - but that wasn't enough; and all in all he kept himself so busy that his social life was more or less limited to these brief jaunts down to the Shamrock to see how Charmaine’s business, pregnancy and life in general were going.

Which is all by way of saying that it had been a very long time since Marcus had just sat in a booth in a bar with someone warm and attractive and simply enjoyed the languorous pleasure of watching them laugh.

It had been a long time since he'd had anything that was _real._

“A three, but an aspiring two,” Bellamy finally said, grinning as he took a long swig of beer. “Which I feel weird about admitting to a stranger, since this is the first time I’ve said it out loud.”

“I should have guessed,” said Marcus. “Nothing says ‘aspiring writer’ like reading a book in a bar even when there’s a basketball game on.”

“I can read and watch basketball at the same time,” Bellamy protested. “I’m a very good multitasker.”

“Oh really?” asked Marcus skeptically. “Who’s ahead right now? Don’t look.”

“I have no idea,” said Bellamy with a crooked, slightly embarrassed smile. “I stopped paying attention the minute you walked over here.”

Marcus’ heart fluttered again, and he leaned back against the booth just enough to let his arm shift against the red vinyl so his fingertips brushed Bellamy’s shoulder, and Bellamy’s smile suddenly faded, as he turned to Marcus and swallowed hard. 

They didn’t say anything for a long time. Marcus let one fingertip find its way up the gray cotton of his t-shirt to the collar and brush ever so delicately over the golden skin of the younger man’s throat, causing Bellamy’s entire body to give a deep, trembling shudder that made Marcus’ jeans grow even tighter.

Bellamy’s head leaned back against the vinyl of the booth, dark curls brushing Marcus’ arm, his whole body now turned to face the older man, both their drinks forgotten, and Marcus knew this face, this open, pleading expression, he’d seen it a hundred times before. It meant invitation. It meant _Come and take me._ It meant _I want, but I don’t know how to ask._

Marcus turned his whole body toward Bellamy, letting the fingers of one hand play with the boy’s tousled curls as the other slid gently up his thigh. Bellamy hissed sharply, closing his eyes. Marcus moved his hand higher. The very tip of one finger could just barely brush the swell of flesh behind the fly of his jeans. 

They were well-obscured by the table and the other booth, no one was paying attention - not even Charmaine, who’d gotten what she wanted and gone back to work, leaving them alone to do . . . well, probably exactly this. He could do it, he realized. He could reach for the zipper. He could watch this sweet, lovely boy go liquid and hot and yielding with pleasure right here in his arms. Or he could take him by the hand and lead him out the back door to the motel parking lot and let Bellamy show him the way to his room, and there he could teach this shy young man, who didn’t seem to know even the basics of cruising and might very well be a virgin, all the secrets to unlocking his own pleasure. 

And Marcus was a _very_ good teacher. 

A second finger stretched out, then a third, and began to stroke the bulge of denim, very very lightly. Bellamy shivered, and suddenly his hands were fisting Marcus’ sweater and tugging him close, so close he could breathe in the yeast-and-hops aroma of Bellamy's warm breath, and his whole body began to grow hard and tight with want.

 _Fuck,_ it would feel so good to kiss him. Marcus hadn’t kissed anyone in such a long time.

“I was so afraid I’d read this wrong,” Bellamy murmured, thick black eyelashes fluttering closed.

“You didn’t,” said Marcus in a low voice.

“I mentioned that I’m staying next door, right?”

“You did.”

“And I don’t have anywhere to be until morning.”

“What a lovely coincidence. Neither do I.”

“Then why the _fuck,”_ whispered Bellamy hoarsely, “haven’t you kissed me yet?”

But Marcus never got the chance to answer, because that was when the Daughters of Eve walked in.

* * * * *

By some miracle, Brother Zechariah was not there, causing Marcus to exhale in relief. And no Brother Daniel, either. It was three adult men he recognized by sight but whose names he didn't know, and one spindly teenage boy, all clad in the same uniform of faded, dirty jeans and work boots. They were building a new annex to the dormitory building, Marcus had heard. The compound was growing. Not just because so many of the Daughters were pregnant seemingly all the time; but because, inexplicably, they were actually getting new recruits from the town. All men, presumably sold on the idea of a bevy of teenage wives. There’d been some tension about it at the last town council meeting, since the property hadn’t actually been zoned residential, and the Daughters were attempting to claim a religious exemption the mayor didn’t want to give them. But when the choice was either bend the rules to let them expand their living quarters, or close them down - running the risk that they would simply scatter all around the town and you might end up with a houseful of them in _your_ neighborhood - suddenly bending the rules was an easier sell.

Marcus took a long swig of his drink and turned back to Bellamy, an explanation on his lips - “don’t mind them, it’s just our local homophobic misogynist end-times cult” - but the words died on his throat when he saw the younger man’s face.

Bellamy looked _shaken._ His jaw was clenching and unclenching, and his tall, angular body began to recede into the corner of the booth, like he was trying to disappear.

Marcus realized he still had one hand resting on the younger man’s cock, and instantly withdrew it, a little mortified, to place it on his shoulder instead. “Are you okay?” he murmured. “Do we need to go?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you,” Marcus started to ask, but then stopped himself. 

_Do you know them?,_ he’d meant to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not only was it not his business - he hadn’t disclosed anything about himself, after all, so he had no right to ask Bellamy anything so personal - but if the answer was anywhere on the spectrum of “yes,” then it was clear there was trauma associated with that memory. How could it _not_ be, for a queer person? The Daughters of Eve hated everything about Marcus Kane, but even more than they hated what he did for a living, they hated that he also did it with men. And he was near in age to Brother Zechariah, buffered by privilege and institutional stability, with nothing to fear from the cult. He'd kept Octavia and Harper and the other kids safe for eight whole years, after all. Marcus was the only person who'd ever bested the preacher, and he _still_ found the man terrifying. If Bellamy had ever somehow crossed paths with him, it was likely to have been even worse.

Charmaine caught his eye in the mirror and saw the worried expression on his face, and the fear in his companion’s, and moved to intercede.

“Something I can help you with?” she inquired pleasantly. “I won’t offer you our bar menu, since I know you gentlemen don’t drink.” Her tone was perfectly polite, but with a hint of warning behind it - _“you don’t have any reason to be here except to cause trouble”_ \- and the shortest of the three men, a stocky little badger of a man with bristling dark eyebrows, stepped forward to face her. 

“No liquor for us, ma’am,” he said, matching her tone of steely politeness. “Just a few hamburgers to go. We’re staying at the motel for the night.”

Charmaine raised an eyebrow at him. “If it’s a matter of needing a ride back across town,” she said, “I’m happy to run you back to your church in my truck.”

“No, ma’am,” said the one beside Eyebrows, tipping his baseball cap at her. “Pipe got busted while we were knocking out a wall for the annex. Hardware store doesn’t open until tomorrow morning for replacement parts, so there’s no running water in the south wing.”

“Ah,” she said. “So everyone who sleeps in the south wing is staying in the motel until it’s fixed.”

“Yes, ma'am."

“How many hamburgers?”

“There’s only four of us, as you can see, ma’am.”

“I was inquiring about your wives.”

Silence. The men shuffled and stared at each other.

“There’s just the four of us at the motel, ma’am,” said Baseball Cap finally, something dark in his voice. “So if you’ll go ahead and put in that to-go order, we’ll be on our way.”

“So it’s fine for the women and the kids to have no running water,” she said, a little frostily, “but God forbid the _men_ don’t get a hot bath.”

“The mortification of the body is a necessary practice of their faith,” piped up the third man, who hadn't spoken yet - the oldest of the three, tall and bony with thinning white hair - in a smooth, rehearsed voice. “It is a counterpoint to the natural voluptuousness of woman.”

Brother Dante, Marcus suddenly remembered. That was this one's name. Second in command to Brother Zechariah.

“Well, I’m very sorry, but we’re all out of hamburgers, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Then we’ll take a menu."

Charmaine stood her ground. “We’re out of everything.”

Baseball Cap advanced a few steps, moving further into the bar, something faintly menacing in his stride. “I see,” he said, fixing a furious glare on the booth where Marcus Kane and the freckled young man sat. “So you’ll serve the likes of _them,_ but not us.”

Charmaine regarded him coolly for a long moment before stepping out from behind the bar, creating a wall between the men and her patrons with the sheer force of her personality and the swell of her pregnant belly - which seemed to make them apprehensive enough to retreat slightly.

Marcus felt the young man beside him tense up, and he tightened his grip on Bellamy’s shoulder, moving in closer, protective and reassuring, trying to say with his body what he could not articulate in words.

_Everything is still okay. I’m not intimidated by them or embarrassed by you. I’m not going to pretend we aren’t exactly what we are. We don’t owe them that. We don’t owe them anything. You have nothing to be afraid of. No one will hurt you, as long as I’m here._

It worked, a little; he could feel some of the rigid stiffness go out of Bellamy’s body, but the younger man was still frozen. Marcus followed his gaze and realized unexpectedly that Bellamy was not, as the rest of the bar now was, staring at the three belligerent men currently facing off with Charmaine. 

He was staring at the skinny teenage boy hovering in the doorway behind them. 

And the boy was staring back.

He could have been anywhere between thirteen and twenty, all skin and bones and sharp elbows. None of his clothes fit right or looked less than a decade old, and his body had folded inward on itself, like he was trying as hard as he could to disappear.

But he was gazing openly at the two men sitting side by side with their drinks like Alice through the keyhole into Wonderland, like he’d never seen anything like them before, like he’d just caught sight of a world he could never have believed existed and wasn’t sure whether he wanted to run towards it or run away.

“The likes of _them_ ,” Charmaine repeated in a positively glacial voice, “are friends of mine, and if you take one step closer you will live to regret it. Now, tell me how many women and kids you have in your group and I’ll happily fix them all up some dinner, free of charge. But I don’t serve bigots in this establishment.”

"Brother Zechariah says it is an honor," said Dante in his mild, cool voice, "to be maligned by the wicked in the course of our service as men of God. We take no offense.”

“He’s a man of God too,” said Charmaine, nodding back over her shoulder at Marcus. “But he’s not keeping a building full of women locked up with no running water.”

All three men eyed Marcus coldly. “We know exactly who, and _what,_ he is,” Brother Dante said. “We obviously have very different definitions of godly.”

“I expect we do, yes,” she agreed flatly. “Bye, now.” 

After realizing she wasn’t going to yield, they finally surrendered. Eyebrows and Baseball Cap, in particular, seemed reluctant to miss the opportunity to get into Marcus' face, but they weren’t about to attempt to shove past a terrifying pregnant bartender, so eventually they just stomped out after Brother Dante.

The boy followed, a little reluctantly, but Charmaine stopped him at the door. “Hey,” she said gently. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I gotta go.”

“Are you hungry?” she demanded. “Do they feed you?”

“It’s okay, I guess,” he said, staring down at the carpet, shuffling his feet. “I get more ‘cause I’m over sixteen. ‘Cause they need me to work.”

“You sharing a room with them?”

“Yeah,” he said, “with my uncle. Brother Josiah. The one in the baseball cap, that was him.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” she told him, “but I meant what I said. If you’re hungry, if you can get away from them, you come on back here and I’ll fix you whatever you want, okay?”

“Thanks,” he mumbled a little shyly. “I don’t know if I can. But if I can I will.”

“You’re always safe here,” said Charmaine firmly. “I promise you that.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “People like you,” she said carefully, voice softer now, “are always, always safe here. Okay? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I gotta go,” said the boy, pulling away from her, and bolted out the door without a look behind him.

Bellamy let out a long, ragged exhale as the door swung closed again, but did not say anything.

Charmaine wiped her hands on her apron and made her way back behind the bar. “I meant what I said,” she announced loudly to the whole room. “Bigots of any kind don’t get to drink my beer and eat my food. You got a problem with that, there’s the door.”

“Ain’t nobody in here got a problem with that, Charmaine!” yelled one of the regulars from the dart board at the back of the bar, and the whole room erupted in laughter, tension broken.

“Good,” said Charmaine. “Now somebody put something gay on that fuckin’ jukebox, it just got _way_ too Westboro Baptist Church in here.”

“I’m on it!” shouted one of the two burly bikers at the table nearest the jukebox in question, digging through his leather vest for change, and minutes later everyone was singing along with George Michael to “Freedom ‘69,” and the ugly moment had passed.

But Marcus was still worried about the boy, and he could tell Charmaine was still worried about the boy from the way she kept craning her neck to look out the window, and he could see that Bellamy was still worried about the boy from the coiled-up tension that had not yet fully left his body. 

But he did not ask.

Bellamy had not given him a last name. He had not told Marcus where he was from or how he had come to town. If he had wanted Marcus to know the source of the strange electrical current of panic that had surged through him at the entrance of the men from the church, he would have said something, and he hadn’t. So Marcus offered him the best thing he could think of to offer instead: 

Distraction.

“Come on,” he said, rising and offering Bellamy his hand. “Let’s play pool.”

“I’m not very good at pool.”

“Then let’s play for a lot of money.”

Bellamy laughed, that warm, open, real laugh, and Marcus felt his heart give a stupid embarrassing flutter all over again, and the Daughters of Eve were forgotten.

* * * * *

Bellamy was exactly medium at pool. Not terrible, but also not great. Which was perfectly fine with Marcus, who did not believe in insulting people by letting them win, and had his eye firmly on the pair of twenty-dollar bills they had set in the middle of the table. But because he was, at heart, a generous and altruistic soul, he was not above offering Bellamy occasional suggestions to improve his form.

Especially because those suggestions gave him an opportunity to press his entire body against the other man’s from behind, holding him in something very like an embrace as he reached around Bellamy’s body to position his grip more efficiently on the pool cue.

Not that he minded Bellamy’s grip; more than once, while he was lining up his own shot, he had noticed Bellamy’s hands gliding slowly, caressingly up and down the smooth surface of the wood. As a distraction tool, it was very effective, but two could play at that game.

“Hold it here,” Marcus murmured, breath warm on Bellamy’s neck, guiding the younger man’s hands with his own. “And when you lean forward, widen your stance a little bit.”

“Like this?” Bellamy asked, shifting his body at the perfect angle to press the taut slope of his ass firmly against the swelling bulge of Marcus’ dick, causing the older man to bite back a groan.

“More,” Marcus said, leaving Bellamy’s hands on the cue and moving his own to grip the younger man’s hips and guide them into place, pressing his own hard, hard, hard against them.

Bellamy lined up the pool cue, with a perfect trajectory to ricochet the eight-ball off the five and knock the five into the pocket. His stance was right, his grip was right, his eye for angles was perfect, and he inhaled deeply as he prepared to take his shot.

The inhale shifted his body just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to create an unbearably delicious friction against the aching head of Marcus’ cock, now straining violently against his zipper, and Marcus could not help himself. 

His hips pushed in, cock grinding hard against ass. Bellamy’s whole body gave a decadent shudder, sending the shot wide and the eight-ball careening harmlessly into nothing.

Bellamy turned around, hooking his fingers into Marcus’ belt loops and pulling him forward. “I think trying to fuck me while I’m about to shoot is cheating,” he reproached him, grinning. “I don’t call that fair play.”

“Really,” Marcus retorted. “But it’s fair to stand across the table from me and give the end of your cue a hand job while I’m trying to take my turn.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I didn’t actually know I was doing that.”

Marcus chuckled. “Your subconscious is really fucking gay,” he pointed out, which made Bellamy laugh again.

“My conscious is too.”

Marcus let his eyes flick downward, ever so briefly, to the swell inside Bellamy's jeans. “I can see that.”

Bellamy set his cue down. “I think I’m done learning about pool for the night.”

Marcus’ hands found his waist, rocking his hips just enough to let the bulge of his cock press against the younger man’s once, twice, three times, making them both groan so loudly they were both worried they’d be heard if it weren’t for the bustle and music. “Good. I’ve got lots of other things I can teach you.”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Bellamy murmured. “Can it be time to go back to my room now?”

“Absolutely,” said Marcus, and let Bellamy lead him out the back door, oblivious to Charmaine’s self-satisfied grin as she approached to collect their glasses and pluck their forgotten forty dollars off the table.

* * * * *

Bellamy’s room was in the center of the lower floor of the motel, the rooms that opened right onto the parking lot. Noisier than the second level, or the north wing with the view of the pool, but cheaper. 

Which probably explained why the Daughters of Eve had wanted them, too.

The van was parked in the spot immediately outside Bellamy’s room, and the men were just getting out of it. They had driven out to the mini-mart by the gas station, it seemed, and picked up whatever they could cobble together for dinner from there. Marcus hoped the uncle was a heavy sleeper, so the boy could sneak back out and have Charmaine fix him a burger. He looked as though both the meal, and the act of rebellion, might do him good.

“Oh,” said Eyebrows as Bellamy pulled out his key and moved to open the door. “It’s you again.” His voice dripped with disgust. “So you two are the reason we couldn’t get two rooms next to each other.”

“There are forty-seven rooms in this motel,” said Marcus. “So there are actually a great many people who are the reason you couldn’t get two rooms next to each other.”

“We wanted _these_ rooms.”

“Don’t worry,” said Marcus politely, “all the rooms are very much the same.”

“Well, you would know,” muttered Brother Dante under his breath, so quietly that Bellamy didn’t catch it, but Marcus definitely did, as Eyebrows complained, “We wanted to be able to keep an eye on the van.”

“It’s very noticeable,” said Marcus. “I’m sure no one is going to steal it. Have a good night.”

And that might have been it, if it hadn’t been for the soft yelp he heard behind him, causing him to turn and see Uncle Josiah gripping the boy’s shoulder so hard Marcus knew he would have a bruise in the morning.

Beside him, Bellamy went cold and rigid all over again. Instinctively, Marcus took a step forward, angling his body to make himself a wall between Bellamy and the other men.

“Don’t you be looking at them,” Josiah hissed at the boy. “You’re not like them. You thinkin’ you’re like them is how all this trouble started in the first place.”

“Take your hand off him,” said Marcus calmly, whose fury had expanded to fill his entire body. He could feel it in the soles of his feet. In the hair on the back of his neck. In the tips of his fingers, which itched to throttle one of these assholes.

_Make a fist. Deep breath. Count to five._

“Don’t you tell us how to discipline our own,” said the uncle ferociously, taking a threatening step toward Marcus, but Brother Dante restrained him.

“Brother Zechariah has very particular rules for the disciplining of children who exhibit unnatural sexual proclivities,” he said. “We don't expect outsiders to understand them. We're just asking to be left alone to practice our faith in peace.”

“Not if you’re hurting children,” said Marcus. 

Dante waved this off. “Elias is nearly eighteen. Eighteen is a man. By your culture’s measure as well as ours. Old enough to be drafted for military service, vote, work any kind of employment -”

“Buy pornography,” suggested Marcus helpfully, causing a faint muffled cough from Bellamy behind him, which might have been a suppressed laugh, and this caused a warm glow to sweep through him. If he’d made Bellamy laugh, that meant he’d made him maybe a little bit less afraid.

For his part, the teenage boy - Elias - was now blatantly staring at Marcus, jaw hanging open, like he couldn’t believe someone had just casually said the word “pornography” right in front of him. Marcus gave the boy a flicker of a smile, and just for a second, he got one back.

“Yes,” said Brother Dante tonelessly. “Of course a man like _you_ would find that funny.” He turned back to the boy. “This is the wages of sin, Elias,” he said. “Let it be a lesson to you. There is no room in heaven for the likes of these.” He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Say it.”

“‘Iter Impiorum Peribit,’” muttered the boy, staring down at the pavement. 

His uncle shook him. “Louder," he demanded. "You heard Brother Dante."

“‘Iter Impiorum Peribit.’”

“I still can’t hear you, boy.”

“‘Iter Impiorum Peribit,’” he said a third time, finally loud enough for the men’s satisfaction, and without another word his uncle led - or rather, yanked - him into the room to the right of Bellamy’s, while the other two men made their way to the concrete stairwell leading up to the second floor, vanishing without a word.

 _“‘The way of the wicked shall perish,’”_ Bellamy murmured, opening the door of the motel room, and Marcus felt his blood suddenly run cold. 

The Daughters of Eve did not keep their sons around for long. Elias appeared to be a rare exception; eighteen was very old for a boy to remain with them. When they grew up, many of them disappeared; ostensibly to make their own way in the world as evangelists, but more likely, because Brother Zechariah did not want the competition of younger men for his wives. It was common knowledge that the boys cast out by the cult often ended up homeless, and it was hard for them to find jobs. Harper and the others were safe in Salt Lake - Vera had driven them there herself - and over the years the Kanes had quietly managed to funnel others in her direction, with money and bus tickets and employment references wherever they could. They'd managed to rescue at least a dozen kids over the years, but it wasn't enough; there were always more. Octavia talked about it sometimes; boys as young as twelve being sent out on their own, forbidden from contacting their mothers or younger siblings ever again, forbidden from returning to Eden unless they came bringing new wives for Brother Zechariah.

Marcus wondered, with a cold knot of panic tightening around his heart, whether Bellamy knew those words because he was simply a mythology nerd who read Joseph Campbell and spoke Latin . . . or because at some point in his life he’d been forced to repeat them himself.

"We don't have to talk any more about any of that," he began carefully, following the younger man into the motel room and busying himself with drawing the curtains, locking and deadbolting the door to give both their nerves a moment to settle before they had to look at each other again. "What we just witnessed was really ugly. I live here, so I’m both used to them by now, and not, I suppose. But I reacted to it. I always do. It never entirely goes away. I'm sure you reacted to it too. So if you’d be more comfortable with a change of plans,” he added, finally turning around to meet Bellamy’s gaze, "if you’d just like to sit here and watch the basketball game - or if you’d like me to go - I won't be offended."

Bellamy looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Oh," he finally said. "Do you . . . are you saying you _want_ to go?”

“No,” said Marcus, a little too loud and a little too quickly, and instantly cringed at how desperate he sounded.

But Bellamy grinned at him, his whole body relaxing. “Thank God,” he said. “I’m only in town until tomorrow, and if it turned out those assholes had ruined this for us, I’d go out there and slash their tires.”

Marcus took a step closer to him. “I know where Charmaine keeps the good knives,” he said. “We could still go do that anyway.”

Bellamy moved in another step too, close enough to drop a hand to Marcus’ waist and hold him there. “I would _never,”_ he insisted, with amused indignation, “ruin such a nice woman’s good knives by slashing tires with them.”

“Charmaine was right. You really are exactly my type.”

“Your type is ‘only in town for one night, precious about knives?’”

“No,” said Marcus, “unfortunately, my type is ‘sexy when he’s making jokes.’”

Bellamy laughed at this, causing Marcus to go fluttery all over again, and then no one said anything for a long, long time, because the younger man’s hands had moved from Marcus’ waist up the planes of his broad chest and the slope of his neck until they’d reached his thick hair, and before Marcus even knew what was happening Bellamy had pulled him close and was kissing him.

Time stopped inside the motel room, and everything around Marcus Kane became a blur. Bellamy’s mouth was hot and hungry and urgent on his, and _Jesus fucking Christ,_ he hadn’t been kissed in such a long time. He was so particular about this rule when he was at work, and it had been - God, _years_ since he’d actually gone on a real normal not-work date, which meant years since another warm mouth had touched his like this. Every cell in his body came to life at once as the younger man’s tongue swept fiercely into his mouth, drawing a low muffled groan out of both of them at the same time.

When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, Marcus opened his eyes to see Bellamy's face positively glowing at him with unabashed delight. “I’ve been thinking about that since the minute you walked into the bar,” he said.

Marcus smiled back. “I hope it lived up to your expectations,” he murmured. “I haven’t done this in awhile.”

Something clicked into place in Bellamy’s eyes, a kind of compassionate understanding, and Marcus abruptly realized he should have expressed himself more clearly. He didn’t want Bellamy getting the wrong idea here - imagining him as some lonely older guy, divorced or a widower maybe, who hadn’t gone cruising in a very long time. And, well, technically Marcus _hadn’t_ gone cruising in a very long time, but he’d also had sex four times today, so he’d really only meant the kissing, which seemed like it might be an important thing to clarify, so Bellamy knew he knew what he was doing. And while nothing about the younger man carried any traces of conservatism or judgment, the fact remained that until Marcus knew more about whatever Bellamy's history was with the Daughters, mentioning the Paradise was a risk; both for "disclosing career as a sex worker" reasons, and for "oh yeah, so the cult leader hates me because I poached his daughter and turned her into a dominatrix, if he turns up you may not want to be seen with me" reasons.

Then two things happened at once which pulled Marcus out of his thoughts. 

First, Bellamy ducked his dark head to press a rough, bruising kiss into the hollow of Marcus’ throat, eliciting a surprised - and therefore somewhat louder than intended - moan of pleasure from the older man, and a very definite awakening between his thighs.

Second, there was an explosive pounding on the wall next to them, startling them both apart as though a gun had gone off next to their heads.

It took them both a moment to realize what had happened. 

“Is that the uncle’s room?” Marcus whispered. “And the kid?”

“I think so, yeah,” said Bellamy. “Jesus. I guess we’ll have to be quieter.”

“Or a whole lot louder.” Marcus’ eyes lit up with mischief. “Want to have a little fun?”

* * * * *

The plan required a modest amount of stealthy preparation first.

While Bellamy carefully removed a framed painting of what he described, rather critically, as "a crapload of ducks", Marcus perused the fire evacuation route map on the back of the door, which had an outline of all the rooms in this wing, theirs marked with a red X, until they'd identified a spot on the wall where the ducks used to be that they felt confident was directly behind the uncle's bed. The Brothers had not shelled out the extra seven dollars for a double queen room, so the kid was almost certainly curled up in a ball on the tiny sofa.

It was Bellamy's idea to go barefoot ("I don't want you accidentally kicking me in the junk"), and Marcus' to shed their jeans and sweaters as well, "for ease of movement." Once stripped down to nothing but shorts and t-shirts, it was difficult to keep from getting distracted by kissing again, with so many fewer layers between them; but Marcus was, after all, a professional.

"Back against the wall," he whispered to Bellamy, pressing up against him. "Ready?"

"Ready," Bellamy grinned back, and then they were off.

Marcus slammed his palms flat against the wall, so loud they were immediately gratified by the creak and mutterings of someone being startled awake, and realized with great satisfaction that they'd found the exact right spot. The walls of the motel were not exactly robust, and they were _directly_ behind Uncle Josiah's flimsy oak headboard.

Bellamy began to thump and writhe against the wall, emitting highly-theatrical moans of pleasure. "Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "Just like that, baby, I love it when you take me up against the wall. Your cock feels so good on my cock."

Marcus gave him a quiet thumbs-up.

"Was that okay?" Bellamy whispered, continuing to thump his head gently against the wallpaper. "Did I say 'cock' too many times? It felt forced."

Marcus waved it aside. "Like he noticed." They stayed in that position, grunting noisily and pretending to make out, until Uncle Josiah pounded on the wall again.

"Scene change," Marcus whispered, pressing his own back against the wall and roaring “Get down on your knees and suck my dick, baby!” while he took over doing the head-thumping thing. He made an impatient "keep up" gesture at Bellamy, who gave an obliging shrug and sank down to the carpet, and began making truly ludicrous wet slurping sounds. It was impossible to deny that it was more than a little hot having the boy on his knees in front of him, even in such a silly context, but he forced himself not to get distracted. “God, your mouth is so good," he announced loudly, "heterosexual men don’t know what they’re missing.”

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ came the pounding of furious fists on the wall once more, but by now it was all-out war.

"Scene change?" Bellamy mouthed silently, and at Marcus nod he rose to his feet and turned to press his chest against the wall.

"Oh," said Marcus under his breath into the boy's ear. "So you want to play pool."

This was a mistake, because Bellamy cracked up immediately, and had to turn around to bury his face in the older man's t-shirt to muffle his cackling. But apparently this sounded sexual to Uncle Josiah too, because they were rewarded with another _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ almost immediately.

Which was almost a pity; it felt nice to hold someone against his chest and feel laughter against his skin.

"Scene change," Marcus whispered, and turned Bellamy around again to fuck him into the wall. “Come here, baby,” he growled, “open up and give me that sweet little ass. Fuck, I love being a godless sodomite with you.”

“Yes, god, yes, shove it all the way into my ass, Daddy, that’s so good,” Bellamy shouted as loud as he could. “I love having sex that’s not for procreation as dictated by the book of Leviticus.”

“Me too, baby, me too.”

"I love your dick so much!"

"I love your ass more!"

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Brother Josiah held out for another three whole minutes, which was frankly a lot longer than they’d anticipated. The low point was Marcus tripping over a stray shoe and accidentally whacking his head on a wall sconce, which he'd played off as well as he could while Bellamy, once more, collapsed into helpless silent hysterics. To avoid risk of further injury, Marcus signaled Bellamy with a "time to wrap it up" gesture; with the eloquent hand gestures of an orchestra conductor, he led them both to a pair of ludicrously over-the-top, porn-worthy orgasms, complete with moans, groans, screams, thumps, and even, for added realism, more wet slurping noises, which appeared to _finally_ be the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

“That’s it,” they heard the uncle’s furious voice through the wall. “I’m not spending another minute listening to this depravity. I’m going to the other room and taking their couch. Get your things, Elias.”

“Should I go with you?”

“You sleep in the van,” he snapped, and they heard the door slam behind him.

Marcus made his way over to their door and looked out the peephole, Bellamy following. “Oscar-worthy performance,” said the younger man, applauding lightly.

“You too. Quite impressive.”

“Well, I had a good director. How’s your head?”

“Haven’t had any complaints,” said Marcus, which caused Bellamy to burst out laughing again, leaning into Marcus' shoulder with an easy intimacy that made his heart swell a little bit.

"My type is also 'sexy when he's making jokes,' as it turns out," Bellamy murmured. "Is the uncle gone?"

“Yeah, he just went up the stairs by the vending machine. I’d like to go check on the kid, if that’s okay with you.”

“Thank you,” said Bellamy, then winced a little as Marcus turned to look at him, like he wasn’t sure why he’d said that. “I mean . . . I like that you - that it matters to you.”

“He’s a kid in a terrible situation,” said Marcus. “I’m just worried. Anyone would be.”

"You'd be surprised," said Bellamy softly, as Marcus opened the door.

Elias, barefoot in a pair of too-big men’s pajamas, carrying a bundle of his clothes and boots, was making his way to the van. Marcus said his name quietly, to get his attention, and the boy turned. “Hey,” said Marcus gently. “You okay?”

Elias stopped, staring at the two men in the doorway in total confusion. “Wait, you’re _dressed,”_ he said, almost accusingly, taking in Marcus’ boxer briefs and t-shirt. Then he looked back over his shoulder at Bellamy. “And _he’s_ dressed.”

“Hope we didn’t interfere too much with your uncle’s sleep,” said Bellamy primly, and after a moment, the boy’s eyes widened and he covered his mouth to muffle a laugh.

“Do you want to come in?” said Marcus. “I’ll call Charmaine and have her send over a burger if you’re hungry.”

The boy hesitated. “I,” he began, looking over his shoulder.

“He went upstairs,” said Bellamy. “We saw him. The coast is clear.”

After a moment, Elias nodded. “Okay,” he said finally. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

* * * * *

Elias’ story - as he told it to them through mouthfuls of bacon cheeseburger, tater tots, and cheesecake - was as grim as the men had both guessed. 

He did not know which of the men in the compound was his father. There were a handful of the women who, due to their fertility and youth, were reserved only for Brother Zechariah’s pleasure - he was permitted seven wives at a time - and a few of the more senior Brothers, like Daniel, were permitted up to three of their own. But a number of the other women were viewed by the lower-ranked men as more or less community property. Their role was to bear as many daughters as they could, and the sanctity of monogamous Christian marriage Brother Zechariah professed to care so deeply about turned out to matter very little.

Elias' mother, Sister Rachel, was one of these. He was her oldest, and the only boy. He had four younger sisters - they weren't sure of their paternity, either - with whom he shared his extra food whenever he could get it, which was why he was starving all the time.

(Charmaine had sent over cheesecake for Marcus and Bellamy too, but at hearing this they immediately slid both other plates across the table and surrendered them to the boy without complaint.)

He'd been obligated to take on the care of the younger girls, Elias explained, after Rachel died in childbirth two years ago. Something had gone wrong and they weren’t allowed to call a doctor, so the other wives had simply stood around staring at each other in blind panic as she bled out in front of them. Elias had cried when they told him, and his uncle - this term, he explained, simply meant a kind of guardian; for all he knew, the man could be his father or no relation at all - had beaten him for it. Emotions were weak, and boys were not meant to be so attached to their mothers. It was a sign of disordered masculinity, Uncle Josiah said, and from that moment on Elias was never free from the men’s watchful eye.

The situation was not improved when, a few months later, Elias was caught in the men's showers, attempting - with what sounded like little success - to masturbate.

He told this part of the story hesitantly, and seemed less embarrassed of the act itself than of his own flawed sinfulness. He had failed to remain pure and holy for God. He had wasted his seed, which could have been used to birth more children for Brother Zechariah.

“Elias,” Marcus asked gently. “What your uncle said earlier, about not wanting you to be like us.” He leaned forward in his chair to meet the boy's eyes. “Are you attracted to other men?” he asked evenly, his voice perfectly calm, as though they were talking about the weather. “Is that what they meant? Is that why someone was watching you in the shower to make sure you didn’t touch yourself?”

Elias looked away. “I thought I would grow out of it, and it would get easier,” he mumbled. “But it just gets worse. That’s why they didn’t send me away, the way they do with the other boys. Brother Zechariah says I need to be watched. There’s a place he knows, a place they send kids sometimes, like a camp, but you come back different, so I didn't want to go, and in the end the only reason they didn’t me was that it costs a lot of money.”

The older men looked at each other, the same horror mirrored in both pairs of warm brown eyes.

“Listen to me,” said Bellamy, in a voice of quiet intensity. “I’m going to tell you something, Elias. And I need you to hear me. Someday - it may be today, or it may not, but someday - you’re going to find an opportunity to get out of there. You’re going to resist it, at first, because you're scared for your sisters, and you might not be able to take them all with you. But if the moment comes to run, you run for your life. That camp he talked about, that place he wants to send you? It’s because he thinks what you are - what all of us are - is evil. But it’s not, Elias. You’re not evil. _He’s_ the evil one,” he added darkly, in a grim, haunted tone that startled Marcus. “You’re innocent. You haven't done a single thing wrong.”

“I didn’t know that there were men who were, like you, like us I mean, who weren’t - I mean, who got to be . . .”

“Happy,” Marcus finished for him gently, and Elias nodded.

“Brother Zechariah says you can’t be happy and sinful at the same time.”

“Maybe you can’t,” said Marcus, considering this point thoughtfully. “Homophobia, for example, I think is a terrible sin, and Brother Josiah certainly does not seem like a happy man. No one I've ever met, in fact, has described that compound as a happy place, or anyone in it as a happy person. Wholly devoid of love and joy, it's always seemed to me. So in a roundabout way, he might be right; but not in the way he thinks. Because I don’t believe who you’re attracted to, or who you fall in love with, can ever be a sin. And I’m very happy, Elias. I have a really good life. I’m surrounded by people who love me for who I am."

"Was it like that always," asked Elias, a little wistfully, "or only now because you're ol- because you're a grownup," he corrected himself hastily, forcing Bellamy to disguise a burst of laughter as a cough.

"Good save, young man," said Marcus, raising an eyebrow wryly at him. "And the answer is both. I always had a mother who loved and supported me. But I had a very cruel father," he added, which caused Bellamy to look over at him in surprise, “so I know something about this. I was an adult when he died, but I still didn’t quite feel like I became myself until I was free of him. I had moments of happiness before, but I have more happiness now.” He patted the boy’s hand. “Bellamy is right,” he said. “Somewhere out there, there’s a place in the world where you can be exactly who you are. And you deserve to go find it. You deserve to have love and to feel pleasure. With anyone you want. In the meantime,” he said, “there’s one piece of this that we can help you with right now, if you’re willing to let us.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re almost eighteen and don’t know how your body works." He looked over at Bellamy. “If it’s all right with you,” he said, “I’d like to put our evening on hold for just a bit longer. I have an idea.”

“If it involves more banging your head against the wall, we should unscrew those sconces.”

"Maybe _you_ should go sleep in the van," he retorted, making both the younger men snicker as he picked up the phone next to the bed and hit one of the numbers on speed dial. “Charmaine? It’s Marcus. Is there any possibility you could send over either a cucumber or a banana?”

* * * * *

He’d expected it to take a lot longer for Elias to come out of his shell, but Bellamy was a surprising help. He cracked gentle jokes, keeping the mood light, and offered occasional comments and suggestions. He’d packed condoms and lube in his overnight bag, something that had caused Marcus’ eyes to meet his with a dark, shivery warmth when he retrieved them, and volunteered them to Marcus for the cucumber demonstration.

Curiosity eventually overcame mortification, and after an hour or so Elias was comfortable enough to put a condom on the cucumber himself and to recite back all the different erogenous zones Marcus had pointed out to him - prostate, glans, coronal ridge, frenulum, perineum. They’d also managed to have an illuminating conversation with him about topping and bottoming, from which Marcus and Bellamy both learned a few rather useful facts about the other. Both of them were bisexual, as it turned out - an entirely new concept for Elias, who grew up believing men only came in two categories, godly or sodomite - and both were fairly comfortable switches; though Marcus topped more often than he bottomed, these days, he explained to the wide-eyed boy, and Bellamy bottomed more often than he topped.

Marcus did not want to overwhelm Elias with too much information all at once, and there were a lot of things about fucking that it was difficult to teach someone on vegetables instead of their own bodies, so he kept it as simple as he could, and encouraged the boy to find partners he trusted and felt very, very safe with when he was ready to learn more. In the meantime, his body was his own, no matter what Brother Zechariah or his uncle said, and learning how to give himself pleasure was not a sin.

“I should go,” the boy finally said, reluctantly. “I really do have to sleep in the van. He’ll know if I didn’t. I’ll be in trouble.”

Marcus rose to walk him to the door, then knelt down to find the jeans he’d discarded earlier in the evening, and pulled his wallet out of the pocket. “Do you have a place you can hide things where your uncle won’t find it?”

“Sometimes when I’ve had a little bit of money,” said the boy, “I hide it at the bottom of my boots. They’re old, and the sole is loose on the inside, so you can pry it up.”

“Perfect,” said Marcus, and pulled out a business card, handing it to him. “I want to make sure you have this.”

From his seat on the bed, Bellamy watched in surprise as Elias took the card from Marcus and stared down at it, his whole face flushing bright red with mortified shock.

“I’ve heard about this place,” he whispered. “But you . . . but I could never . . .”

“Call this number,” he said. “Any time, day or night. If you need someone to come get you. If you don’t feel safe. If you’re ready to run, and you need help getting out of town. A bus ticket, or money, anything.”

“I can’t,” said Elias helplessly. “I can’t, I can’t, they’ll know. We’re not allowed to even _talk_ about that place.”

“Then call George or Charmaine. They’ll put you through. They’ve done it before. We could do it right now, if you wanted to.”

Elias looked stunned, then shook his head. “I couldn’t,” he finally whispered, “not without my little sisters, I couldn’t just leave them . . .”

Marcus put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Then put the card in your shoe, and wait until you’re ready,” he said. “Anyone who works for this motel can help you. Anyone next door at the Shamrock can help you. Sheriff Miller can help you. All the taxi drivers and bus drivers in town know how to get to this place, and any of them can help you. If you can get to a telephone, we can find a way to get you out.”

“Is Sister Sarah happy?” Elias asked. "She was nice to me. She was my friend."

Marcus smiled. “Her real name is Harper,” he said, “and yes. She is. I’ll tell her you asked.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” the boy said, looking away, suddenly shy. “Both of you. I’ve never met anybody like you before.”

“The only thing you have to do,” said Bellamy, rising from the bed to join them at the door as Marcus unlocked it to let the boy go, “is to get out of that place and go live a happy life. That’s all we want for you.”

Marcus nodded his agreement, vexed at himself that the strange flutter in his stomach had returned at the comfortable, casual way Bellamy had referred to the two of them as a “we.”

Elias hugged them both awkwardly, gathered up his things, stuck the business card in the heel of his left boot, and made his way out the door into the parking lot, where he unlocked the van, gave them both a sad little wave, and climbed inside, closing the door behind him.

Marcus looked at Bellamy.

Bellamy looked at Marcus.

“I think I need another drink,” said Marcus. “How about you?”

* * * * *

They decided they were in the mood to finish the basketball game, after all, as a way to lighten the night’s heavy mood a little, aided by the bottle of wine Charmaine had sent over (accompanied by a cheeky note about hoping their evening was about to get back on track, which Marcus hastily crumpled up and shoved into his pocket before Bellamy could see it). Now, with the game over and the television off, they were seated side by side on the bed in the dim light of the bedside lamp, and both were suddenly aware of the silence again.

“So, are you a social worker?” asked Bellamy, the first to speak.

“What?”

“The card you gave Elias. You said you knew another person who’d run away from the cult.”

“Not a social worker, no,” said Marcus carefully, swallowing the last of his wine from one of the plastic cups they’d taken from the motel sink. “I . . . work with a woman, well two actually, who used to belong to the Daughters. Harper, the one Elias knows, left about eight years ago, along with a few others. My mom and I helped get them out of town. Harper is back now, and from time to time we stumble across other runaways, or they come to us, and we help get them out. All very under the radar. Social services can’t actually do anything, because technically they’re registered as a church.”

“So you don’t do it because it’s your job,” said Bellamy, turning to him with a look in his eyes that seemed almost like wonder. “You do it because when you see someone who needs help, you just . . . help them."

Marcus felt his cheeks flush a little under the intensity of the younger man's scrutiny. "I think you're making me sound rather more heroic and noble than I am."

"I don't," said Bellamy. "I think you might be the first really, truly good person I've ever met in my whole life."

Marcus looked at him, feeling gravity tug his head ever so slightly closer to Bellamy's. "Not that good," he murmured, reaching out to brush a light fingertip over the boy's lower lip. "I've been thinking some very sinful thoughts, since the moment I walked into the bar, about this mouth."

A mischievous grin lit up Bellamy's face. "Sinful, huh?" he repeated playfully, as he rose from the bed to switch off the lights and double-check the door. "You just told Elias that it _wasn't_ a sin to touch another man's . . . cucumber." He retrieved the lube and one of the unopened condoms from the table, and held up the vegetable in question. "Will we be needing this?"

"Mine works just fine, thank you," said Marcus, which got him another one of those raucous, wonderful laughs he was very much afraid he was becoming addicted to. "Though I will say," he added, as he watched Bellamy approach the bed and slowly pull his t-shirt off over his head, “it was extremely illuminating watching you demonstrate exactly how you like to be touched.”

"Right back at you," said Bellamy, pulling off his shorts and giving Marcus a brief, tantalizing glimpse of a lovely, already-stirring cock. "Some very useful lessons for all of us."

Marcus yanked his own shirt off over his head and tugged off his boxer briefs, throwing them both onto the floor, then turned to gaze at the grinning, freckled face now resting on the pillow beside him. “No more interruptions,” he whispered, and Bellamy shook his head.

“No more interruptions,” he agreed.

Marcus shifted his weight to blanket the younger man with his body, and shivered in delight at Bellamy’s quiet sigh of pleasure, at the way his thighs parted immediately to make room, at the gentle brush of cock against cock as they settled into each other. This time it was Marcus who initiated the kiss, but it wasn’t fierce and urgent, like before. It began as just the faintest whisper of lips, tongue, beard against Bellamy’s own. But Bellamy seemed to want him very, very badly, and Marcus could taste his impatience, his hunger. He hadn’t asked, but he wondered if it had been a long time for Bellamy too.

“I’m clean, by the way,” said Marcus quietly, “before we go any further.”

“Me too,” said Bellamy, then, a little awkwardly, “thank you. I wasn’t sure how to ask.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re good at making people feel comfortable,” Bellamy said. “I really like that about you. You feel . . .” He paused for a moment, looking up at Marcus, a thoughtful expression in his eyes, like there was something very important he was trying to get right. “Safe,” he finally said. “I feel _safe_ with you. I haven’t felt like that in awhile.”

“You are safe with me,” whispered Marcus, something aching and warm opening up inside his chest, and kissed Bellamy again, cradling the younger man’s freckled jaw in his strong hands. “I promise."

Then Bellamy’s hand slipped below the sheets and brushed gently against his cock and words faded out of existence as a different language took over altogether, and there were, in fact, no more interruptions.

They went slow, savoring each other. Marcus felt intoxicated by the luxury of being able to kiss that lovely mouth as much as he wanted, so for a long time they just lay there, caressing each other, tasting each other, listening to each other’s quiet moans and breaths and sighs. An infinity passed this way, time measured only in how long it took for both their cocks to become desperately, achingly hard. Then, “Please,” whispered Bellamy, reaching for the bedside table to hand the condom and the bottle of lube to Marcus, and pulled one of the pillows beside him to slide beneath his hips, and Marcus’ whole body trembled like this was all happening for the very first time, even though he’d already fucked another man and two women today _and_ gotten his cock sucked by Roan in front of thirty people at the Red Room evening show.

It was a good thing Bellamy didn’t live here. This could get very dangerous very, very quickly.

The younger man closed his eyes, and let his body go soft and submissive as Marcus warmed the lube between his palms to make them both ready - first, working Bellamy open with deft, gentle, practiced fingers, savoring his choked gasps of pleasure, then rolling the condom on with a soft snap and coating it from top to bottom. “Please,” Bellamy whimpered, his hips lifting hungrily, impatiently, as Marcus finished slicking the latex surface with lube and knelt between his thighs. “Please, Marcus. Please.”

“Are you ready?” he whispered. Bellamy nodded. “And it’s okay like this? On your back? Do you like it this way?”

“I don’t care,” Bellamy whispered, “any way you want, I just need . . . I need . . .”

“This way, then,” said Marcus, cradling Bellamy’s cheek in one hand as he gripped his cock in the other. “I want to look at you.”

Bellamy nodded breathlessly, eyes wide and dark and desperate, locked on Marcus’ own, pleading.

“Say it,” Marcus commanded in a low voice, and Bellamy shivered with lust.

“Fuck me, Marcus,” he whispered hoarsely, holding the older man’s gaze, and Marcus gently, slowly, pushed the tip of his cock inside.

Then, almost immediately, he pulled back out again, recoiling from Bellamy in horror.

Bellamy’s body had not resisted him - the tight ring of muscle had expanded to let Marcus in, without flinching - but something had happened to his face. Something terrible. He’d pressed his eyes closed the minute Marcus’ cock touched him, and he’d turned his face away, and that was how Marcus knew.

But Bellamy, it seemed, did not.

“What happened?” he demanded, reaching up to clutch at Marcus’ shoulders, like he was afraid the other man was about to get up and leave him. “Why did you stop? Am I not - was I not -”

“Who was he?” Marcus asked quietly. “How old were you?”

Bellamy froze.

Marcus cradled the boy’s cheek in his hand, eyes heavy and sad and full of deep compassion. “You couldn’t look at me,” he said. “You didn’t stop it, but you couldn’t look at me.”

“I wasn't lying,” said Bellamy desperately. “I really do want - I mean I don’t want you to think -”

Marcus shook his head. “I know that,” he said. “It’s just that sometimes our bodies . . . carry memories that we don’t let our minds hold onto.” He stroked Bellamy’s cheek with infinite tenderness. “And so, if at some point in your past,” he began carefully, “if somebody - hurt you . . . or if something happened, and you didn’t want it -”

“I was sixteen,” Bellamy blurted out. “It was my first time. I didn’t want it.”

He couldn’t look at Marcus after that.

“I was eighteen, when it happened to me,” said Marcus softly. “And I didn’t want it either.”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing - _nothing_ \- to apologize for.”

“You can try again, I can be ready this time, I won’t -”

“Stop,” said Marcus firmly. “Listen to me. Is it always like this?”

“Like what?”

“You want it up until the moment it starts to happen, and then the switch flips off, and you have to disappear to that other place inside your mind to survive it.”

Bellamy swallowed hard, voice growing shaky. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed,” he said.

Marcus was stunned by this admission. “You mean no one else has ever _checked?”_ he demanded. “Other men have fucked you without even noticing that it was hurting you, that you weren’t enjoying it, that you had to just shut down and turn off your whole body to endure it? You deserve so much better than that, Bellamy. It shouldn’t be like this.” But in his frustration and fury, his voice had begun to raise, and now Bellamy was trembling with what looked like a hundred emotions crowding into his dark eyes, which had become suspiciously bright, and Marcus knew that at least one of them was panic.

Instantly, he collected himself.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, love," he murmured, "I didn't mean to yell, I didn't mean to sound angry. I'm not angry at you. _Never_ at you. I'm angry that you were treated this way, by people who should know better." He pressed a long, gentle kiss against the boy's mouth and let his body sink down on top of him again, kissing and kissing and kissing him - his mouth, his collarbone, the hollow behind his ear, the gentle curve of his pectoral muscles, the dark brown nipples still tight with want even after all this - trying to reassure the boy with connection and touch and to bring him back into his body. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I want you so much. I wanted you from the minute I saw you. If you were here for another week or two, instead of just one night, I’d take you to school. Just like I did with Elias. But I wouldn’t use a fucking cucumber.”

This made Bellamy laugh, just a little, but it was enough, and some of the coiled-up tension left his body. "What would you do, then, professor?" he asked, hands sliding up Marcus' sides to clutch at his back, tangle in his hair, like he was still just a little afraid he might lose him after all. So Marcus gave him more. Fingertips stroking everywhere, licking hot kisses into his skin everywhere.

“I would start you off slow," Marcus breathed into his ear, feeling the boy tremble. "I would start from the beginning, I’d be so gentle with you, I would make you feel so safe, I would work you open with my hands and my mouth and all kinds of toys you can't even imagine, and I'd touch you all the places you've never been touched. And by the time I finally fucked you, Bellamy, you’d be so ready for me that you’d feel it in your whole body. And you’d be able to look at me the whole time.” He kissed his mouth. “I want to teach you how good it can feel so when I was finally inside you, you’d smile at me. You’d be happy. I want you to be happy.”

"Oh God, Marcus," Bellamy murmured. "Fuck. I wish . . ."

"Don't wish. Say yes."

“I only have enough money for one night here. If I don’t get this job -”

“You don’t need a motel room,” Marcus reminded him. “I live here. I can teach you in my own bed.” He looked down into Bellamy's eyes, and cradled his jaw with one hand. "Listen to me," he said. "I promise I'm not being selfish. I'm not just saying this because I want you. Even though," he added quietly, in a voice so serious and intense that it made Bellamy's cheeks warm and red, "I want you very, very badly." He brushed a stray lock of hair back from the boy's forehead. "But I also know,” he went on gently, “how it feels to have to shut down like that, to survive. In bed, or anywhere else. And I don't want that for you. You deserve to love sex, Bellamy. Even if you leave here, and it isn’t with me.”

Bellamy looked at him in silence for a long, long time. “In my whole life,” he finally said, sitting up to face Marcus, “I’ve never met anyone like you.” He cupped the older man’s jaw in both hands, running his fingers through the thick scruff of beard, eyes dark and serious. “You _see_ people, somehow. You see Charmaine. She’s not just a bartender to you. You saw the Brothers. You weren't afraid of them. You saw those kids who needed help. You saw Elias, more than he’s ever been seen in his life. And you see _me._ I didn’t expect that.”

“I do,” said Marcus. “I do see you. And I very much want to _keep_ seeing you.”

"I'm sor-" Bellamy began again, but Marcus silenced him with a long, hard kiss, tongue sweeping into Bellamy's mouth, hands firm and certain on the younger man's jaw, and when they finally pulled apart, breathing hard, Marcus whispered, "Promise me you'll never apologize to me again for something that someone _else_ did to _you."_

"I promise," said Bellamy, exhaling deeply as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Marcus rolled over onto his back and sat up in the middle of the bed, pulling Bellamy up to sit astride his thighs, very nearly in his lap, both pairs of powerful thighs wrapped around each other, cocks brushing each other with a shivery-sweet weight. "Come here," he said, pulling the younger man closer. One hand slid up Bellamy’s warm skin to palm his back, fingertips tripping lightly up and down the notches of his spine, as Bellamy sighed in pleasure and let his head drop against Marcus’ shoulder. The other hand moved lower and wrapped gently around Bellamy’s cock. “For tonight, let’s just do this,” he murmured into the boy’s tangled black curls. “You can decide about everything else tomorrow. Let me just hold you. Let me make you come like this. So you feel safe.”

Bellamy nodded drowsily into his shoulder, and reached down with one hand to take Marcus’ cock in his own firm, sure grip, peeling off the condom and tossing it onto the bedside table so he could caress Marcus skin to skin. “I feel safe,” he whispered. “I promise.”

“Good.”

“I wish I could . . . give you more -”

“This is perfect,” Marcus assured him gently. “What you’re doing is perfect. You feel so good."

It was like that for a long time, slow and still and sweet, Bellamy cradled against the older man's powerful, warm bare chest, eyes closed, feeling years of guilt and shame and tension dissolve with every stroke of Marcus' deft hands on the delicate skin of his cock. Marcus was as intuitive about this as he was about everything else, and the moment Bellamy felt the deep, pulsing swell of an orgasm begin to build at the deepest core of his being, Marcus gave the boy’s head a gentle tug and lifted it to meet his gaze. “Let me look at you,” he whispered. “When you come, I want to look at you.”

Bellamy nodded, and neither of them spoke again. They just looked at each other, dark eyes locked together, breathing hard, hands moving harder and faster, faster and harder, pacing each other to in sync. When they finally came, just a heartbeat apart, Bellamy first and then Marcus a moment later, Bellamy did not look away.

He smiled.

* * * * *

They slept in a loose, warm, sated tangle of limbs in the center of the bed. Marcus had not slept a whole night through with someone else next to him in a very long time; it was an option he offered, of course, but it was pricey, and most people were perfectly content to pay only for the hours they were actually partaking in his services.

But Bellamy wasn’t a client. He was just a warm, funny, sexy man who had somehow dropped out of the sky and into Marcus Kane’s life, and managed to make his way past the iron walls Marcus had built to guard his heart more quickly than anyone since - 

The Griffins. That was who Bellamy reminded him of. That cocky wit and crooked smile, that was all Jake, and the quiet intensity of his dark eyes was pure Abby. That was the last time someone had undone Marcus like this.

But that had been different, he reminded himself. Because the Griffins were clients. There had been lines he could not cross. And they'd also known, from the very beginning, that it was only temporary, a brief flash of ecstasy before they returned to their lives, and not a thing which could last forever.

 _It's the same now,_ a stern voice inside his head reminded him, but it wasn’t enough to silence the tiny flicker of hope in his heart. Bellamy had a job interview tomorrow, after all, so there was a chance he might really be staying. And even if he didn’t get the job, well, there would be other jobs, and Marcus had money, and he ran a _hotel,_ for God’s sake, surely he could convince him to stay just for a week or two, no commitment, just a few more nights together, to gently and tenderly take him apart and teach him his own deepest pleasure and then see how they felt about each other after that.

Just a week, to see if the thing happening inside his chest was also happening inside Bellamy’s.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

* * * * *

Bellamy was gone when he woke, but he’d left a note on the pillow.

 _“Left for interview,”_ it began, _“but you looked so sexy sleeping that I didn’t want to wake you. Meet at the Shamrock for dinner? You win. I canceled my bus ticket. Take me to school.”_

The smile Marcus fell asleep wearing didn’t leave his face as he read the note over and over again, as he showered in Bellamy’s bathroom and put his clothes back on, as he left the motel room to walk back across the street to his car, as he drove back across town to the Paradise and parked in the private staff parking lot and entered through the back door, as Harper stared at him openly (“were you just _whistling_?”), as he trotted up the stairs to Indra’s office, and as the woman waved him down to say “Oh good, you’re just in time, this is one of the finalists for the vacant position.”

Then it finally came crashing down from his face as the figure in the chair opposite Indra’s desk rose, turned around, and stared at him.

“This is the owner, Marcus Kane,” said Indra. “He’ll be your boss for the day to day, and your primary performing partner, as we discussed. Marcus, this is Bellamy Blake.”


	7. Quo Abiit Dilectus Tuus? (“Whither is thy beloved gone?”)

**SIX YEARS AGO**

She just wanted to go home.

The whole city of Las Vegas had Abby Griffin on sensory overload, and not in a good way. It began the minute she’d stepped out of the plane into the screaming neon jangle of McCarran Airport - where there were slot machines literally _at the gates_ \- and continued through the cacophony of baggage claim and buses, the insane crowds in the lobby of the Westgate, and the sheer chaos of the event floor at the convention center across the street. Everyone and everything around her was too much. Voices were too loud, colors were too bright, lines were too long, sidewalks were too busy, and the people around her just _would. not. stop. talking._

She had been trying all week to be game, to be social, to be everywhere she was expected to be with a smile plastered to her face - gladhanding vendors on the convention floor, sitting through endless cocktail receptions and formal luncheons, applauding politely at speeches; but everything made her head hurt. From the moment she left her hotel room every morning, she was only counting down the hours and minutes until she would finally be free to slip away from the boisterous carousing downstairs and return to it.

It wasn’t any more pleasant in the hotel room than anywhere else, not really; it was lonely, it was dark, it was sad. But at the very least, it was quiet, and that was all she wanted.

Clarke had been right. It was too soon. This was a bad idea.

And she had no one to blame but herself, of course, because the people who loved her had seen this coming and tried over and over to pull the plug on this trip. Jackson had given her an out, but she’d been too stubborn to take it. “You’re still recovering,” he’d said gently. “You’ve only been back to work for a few weeks. If you don’t want to go to the convention, you can tell the board you aren’t up for it. I can go, and fill in for you. It doesn't all need to be on your shoulders, Abby. You don't need to do this.”

But Abby was the only woman on the hospital board, which meant that, in some ways that her well-meaning second-in-command did not quite understand, she actually _did_ need to do this. She'd given her word, and she could not show weakness - especially not _emotional_ weakness, god forbid - in front of those men.

She could not run the risk of any of them muttering to themselves that Dr. Griffin was sitting alone at home crying into her wine, leaving them to carry the team without her.

So she made a salon appointment, to get her grays touched up so no one commented on how much she'd aged since this time last year; packed her bags, with at least two different outfits for every day (a burden none of the men were forced to endure at conferences, she could not help but note); boarded the early-morning flight on Tuesday; and proceeded to do her best to survive what was rapidly becoming a kind of emotional landmine obstacle course. She woke every morning at five a.m. to spend an hour in the hotel gym, running as fast as her body would let her in the always-futile hopes that a little bit of physical pain would silence her mind for a little while; then she showered and dressed and did her hair and makeup, put on her nametag and her VIP badge on its plastic lanyard, and arrived at each day’s breakfast meeting before anyone else, so no one could accuse her of slacking off even for a minute.

From then it was nonstop extroverting, just talk talk talk all day long until at least ten or eleven at night (depending on how early the other board members decided to get rowdy, at which point she could sense their desire to be rid of her), leaving just enough time to collapse into bed, watch a few episodes of something soothing - like a 90’s sitcom, or a baking show - and then crash.

And she’d been doing it for five days. She was exhausted.

Even in a good year, the annual medical technology convention was a lot to take. But right now, she was on the edge of a breakdown.

 _This will teach you not to listen to your daughter,_ she thought grimly, as she sawed off chunks of of overdone rib-eye and attempted to tune out the deafening laughter of a dozen white men in their sixties celebrating the final night of a successful convention with a trip to an overpriced steakhouse. If she hadn't been so fucking stubborn, it would be Jackson here, feeling out of his element with nobody to talk to, and she could be home on her couch with a mug of tea, a blonde head drowsing against her shoulder, Mary Berry on the television in the background gently criticizing someone's cake.

Jackson was the only man in the whole world, she thought to herself, that she did not hate right now.

She hated everyone sitting around this table. She hated everyone on the convention floor, a place it was impossible to avoid being hit on no matter how unremarkable she tried to appear. She hated Bugsy Siegel for building hotels on this godforsaken strip of desert land in the first place, and Frank Sinatra for making it look cool. She hated her father, for raising a daughter as bullheaded as he had been; and she was so lonely and sad and weary that for a moment, she very nearly hated Jake.

As it so often did, salvation came in the form of another woman entering the room.

More specifically, the waitress - the only person in the room having a worse night than Abby - returned to the table offering dessert menus.

Abby accepted one gratefully and was in the middle of a question about the chocolate frangipane torte when she was interrupted by the sound of all her colleagues deciding as one, without her, that they would rather spend the remainder of their per diem cash at the hotel's whiskey bar, rather than wasting a dollar on “girly overpriced cake.”

Masculinity, apparently, was too fragile for men to enjoy chocolate in public.

Abby sat in her chair, feeling her cheeks flush red with anger, as the dessert menu in her hand began to slowly expand in importance until it became a symbol of every exhausting, demeaning, sexist microaggression (and sometimes just plain old aggression) she had been forced to endure this week by men who did not listen to her, who did not give a shit what she had sacrificed to be here, who had not asked how she was doing or noticed that she was not okay; and who now, on their last night, after yet another in a long line of bad meals at bad restaurants in whose choice she hadn't gotten a vote, had waited until she found _the_ _one single solitary tiny thing_ that might make this whole clusterfuck a _tiny bit_ more bearable, and now they wanted to take it away from her. So they could go get drunk.

This was the last straw.

"All right, Griffin, we're walking back," said the board chair, as she watched all the men pull cash out of their per diem envelopes, hastily leave what she knew were absolutely disgraceful tips on the table, and then bolt before the waitress noticed. "Get your purse, hurry up, let's go. Half-price pours start in fifteen minutes."

What she _wanted_ to say was "Go fuck yourself, Carl," but she did still technically need this job, so instead what she said was, "You go on ahead, I'll be right behind you," and then proceeded to performatively dig through her purse for her wallet so slowly that she could feel him begin to seethe with frustration.

"We'll just meet you downstairs," he finally grumbled.

"My feet hurt, so I'll probably just take a cab back," she said, "why don't you all just go ahead and I'll meet you at the bar?"

Carl gave this remark a dismissive wave and disappeared. Two drinks into half-price pour night, not a one of them would even remember she existed, so it was annoying that she had to go through this song and dance every single time, but "No, you're all terrible company, and I just want to go lie down" was not an answer which played well with the bosses.

Once Carl was well and truly gone, the waitress paused in the midst of clearing the table and looked back over at Abby. “We serve our full dessert menu upstairs at the 15th floor wine bar,” she said. “It tends to be quite crowded around the early and late-night happy hour, but it’s very quiet right now.”

Abby pulled the rest of the cash out of her own per diem envelope - eight twenty-dollar bills; she'd spent way less on booze than everybody else, so she had plenty left over - and left all of it on the table. “15th floor, you said?”

“Can’t miss it. Get the chocolate frangipane torte.”

“You,” said Abby, “are my hero.”

* * * * *

The wine bar was everything the waitress had promised, and the deep sense of relief and calm she experienced upon stepping inside was, she felt, absolutely worth a $160 tip. It was spacious, but designed in clusters of cozy nooks and crannies, and very nearly deserted. The decor was loosely Art Deco-inspired, with an understated elegance she liked immediately. Blue velvet banquettes, muted amber lighting, quiet jazz music, no windows. It felt cozy and private, like a speakeasy, and without the visual cacophony of the Strip constantly invading her eyeballs it was easy to pretend she wasn’t in Las Vegas.

Strange, that a place she hadn’t visited in two decades should still cause a pain this relentless and intense; but three months was too soon for anything to be free of ghosts. She was so miserable that the sheer relief of going home tomorrow would be worth letting Clarke say “I told you so” the whole drive home from the airport.

She ordered her wine and cake, handed back the menu, settled into the semicircular banquette, leaned her head back against the soft velvet, closed her eyes, and reminded herself that it was almost over. She was going home tomorrow. She would be rid of this place soon. She would return to the ghosts she'd gotten used to, which was at least more manageable than this continual fear of new ones.

If there had been a window in the wine bar, fifteen floors was probably high enough up to see Caesar’s Palace from here. 

Where they’d gotten married.

Shit. _Not now, Abby. Not now._

The tears sprang up immediately, and she knew if she did not force herself to swallow them back down she would absolutely lose it here at this table, but God, she was just _so tired_. Whatever emotional resilience she had to draw from back in Vermont - surrounded by friends, colleagues, her daughter, the comforts of home - had entirely deserted her in Las Vegas, and she began to realize in mounting horror that this might, actually, for real, be the moment she finally snapped. Jackson had tried to tell her, Clarke had tried to tell her, but she was stubborn, and didn’t listen to either of them, and now here she was forcing herself to practice her yoga breathing to keep from sobbing into her napkin while she waited for her cake, and then _shit, shit, shit,_ out of her periphery she could see a figure in a dark suit walking over to her table, _fucking great,_ now she was about to get _hit on,_ of all things, why was the whole world conspiring to make this the worst night of her life?

Honestly, as far as she was concerned, Las Vegas could go straight to hell, with everyone in it.

The suit had arrived at her table. She looked up, ready to unleash the full force of her near-hysterical rage-grief on this asshole for failing so spectacularly to read the room - but once she saw his face, she suddenly found she couldn’t speak. Or even breathe.

Standing across from her was a man about her own age, tall, and broad-shouldered and handsome in a wonderfully rugged, weathered kind of way. He had wavy dark chocolate hair with a faint whisper of gray at the temples, a soft thick beard to match - both just long enough and shaggy enough to take the stiff formality out of his perfect charcoal gray suit - and he was staring at her in wonder and delight, with a pair of warm brown eyes she’d thought she would never see again.

“Hi,” said Marcus Kane. “Can I buy you a drink?”

* * *

**SEVEN YEARS AGO**

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?” Marcus repeated absently, eyes still scanning the contract. He’d signed it, the deed was done, the ink was dry on his thick, sloping black signature, but he somehow felt if he blinked or looked away from it the whole thing would dissolve into smoke.

“Having the whole place to yourself,” said Indra. His office manager leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, and even in his peripheral vision he could see her smiling.

“It feels like my parents are dead, and it’s impossible to be happy about that.”

“Well, for _one_ of them anyway,” he heard Indra mutter under her breath.

“Hey now,” he said, still not looking up. “Harry Kane was a bastard, but he was the bastard who built this place. There was -”

“Nothing but dive bars and desert when he got here,” Indra finished for him. “I know.” She patted his hand. “And I miss Vera too. Every day. We all do. She was the best mom most of us ever had. But it’s your time now, Marcus. This place can be anything you want it to be.”

Marcus looked up at her. “I’m not magic,” he said wearily. “I don't _know_ what I want it to be. You seem to have a lot more faith in me than I do.”

“You just inherited an empire, Marcus. You can give it a few days to sink in.”

“Yeah, I saw the op-ed in today’s paper,” he said bitterly. “If they’re already calling me ‘The Whore King of Nevada,’ there’s really nowhere to go but up.”

She smacked him on the arm. “Hey,” she said sternly. “Knock it off. The people in this town know you, and they love you. And they loved your mother. Don’t listen to the cult weirdos.”

“It’s getting harder not to. There are more of them than there used to be.”

“There’s more of _everyone_ than there used to be,” she reminded him. “The town is growing. Defunct properties opening back up again. The Fourth of July parade and the Harvest Fair coming back. You did that, Marcus. You and Vera and all of us together.”

“And what did it get her, in the end?” he muttered, rising from his seat and making his way over to the window. “A metal box, a square of unhallowed ground, and a jacaranda tree. Same as my father. She deserved more than that.”

Indra looked at him somberly. “This is about the funeral.”

_“Don’t.”_

“This ground wasn’t unhallowed to her,” Indra pointed out. “You buried her in the soil of the place she built. That’s not nothing. You didn’t fail her.”

“She deserved more.”

Indra sighed. “I’m not defending it,” she began carefully. “And I don’t think it meant he didn’t like your mom. I’m just saying . . . Marcus, he’s a part-time pastor in a parish of sixty people in the middle of fucking nowhere. And he had protesters outside his church for two weeks.”

“I know.”

“It was on the news. Westboro Baptist Church shit.”

“Yeah.”

“And at least he was nice about it. I mean he didn’t _agree_ with Brother Zechariah. He didn’t let them call your mother names in front of the TV cameras. He tried to do it as quietly as he could.”

“I knew there would be retaliation, someday,” Marcus said grimly. “I just thought it would be directed at _me._ And I knew I could take it.”

“Yes, but he knew that too,” she pointed out. “He thinks you lashed out at him by targeting a member of his family. So he lashed back by doing the same.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. “I know it wasn’t in a church, but it was still a nice service,” she said. “It was so good to see everyone again. Charles and Jacopo and Thelonious and Callie. All back in town again for the first time in years.”

“Yeah.”

“People loved your mother, Marcus. Wherever her ashes ended up - buried at a church or a brothel - that doesn’t change who she was, or what she did, or what she meant to people. Her life was bigger than that.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. It’s just . . .”

“That it was cruel,” Indra finished for him, nodding. “Cruel for the sake of being cruel. And that’s never been something you can recognize or understand. It goes against everything that you are.”

Marcus looked out the window of Indra’s office, where in the distance over the garden walls of the Paradise he could see the dusty roads leading to Eden’s main street, the houses and shops, the park and the school, and beyond, the desert mountains that ringed the town. “Sometimes,” he murmured quietly, “I feel like something is coming.”

Indra looked at him, unable to suppress a peculiar shiver at the dark rumble of his voice. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t quite know what I mean,” he said. “But he frightens me, sometimes.”

“He can’t hurt you, Marcus. He’s a creepy wacko who lives in an old church. You have more money, more power, more local influence, and you and your mother have helped save so many of those kids. You’re much stronger than he is.”

Marcus shook his head. “Fifteen years ago, when he moved here, he was just a creepy wacko who lived in an old church. It was just him and like, six guys, and the wives and children. But it’s grown, Indra. There’s real power in him, now. We can dismiss it all we like, but the fact is, he told the church not to bury Vera Kane on sanctified ground, and the church didn’t, and in the end there was nothing we could do about it. He’s a _presence_ now. He’s a person people listen to.”

“So are you.”

“I have this vision, sometimes. Like it’s all a kind of chess game to him. A battle between good and evil, all of Eden hanging in the balance. Everyone around us - my mother, Octavia, Harper and the other kids, the town council, the newspaper editorial board - they’re just pieces for him to move around. But it feels like it’s all leading toward something. Like someday it will just be him and me.”

“And this one-horse town ain’t big enough for the both of you,” said Indra, causing him to finally shake off his reverie a little and turn around. She raised an eyebrow at him. “Old age has made you morbid,” she said. “And a bit of a drama queen.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. Today is a day to celebrate.” He picked up the contract. “I really am happy,” he said. “I don’t want everyone to think that I’m not.”

“Fifteen years almost to the day since your first shift as a concierge,” said Indra. “And now you’re the Whore King of Nevada. I’ve never been more proud.”

“If you’re saying that over and over again in the hopes that it will catch on as a nickname, I am not above firing you,” said Marcus dryly.

“It’s catchy.”

“You know I don’t like ‘whore.’”

“Yeah, but if that’s what the assholes are going to call you anyway, it helps to take the sting out of the word.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with a queer Black woman about that.”

“Damn right you’re not. Especially one who is this much smarter than you.” Marcus laughed. “Come on,” she said briskly. “Everyone’s in the break room and Roan brought champagne. Your family wants to celebrate with you.”

_Fifteen years almost to the day._

It was stupid - he knew it was stupid - he’d given up hope years ago that they’d ever come back - but still, as he followed Indra down the hall to the staff lounge, as he smiled and shook hands and hugged his staff, and listened to them toast his mother’s memory and congratulate him on his hard work, it was impossible not to find himself disappearing back down into the past.

He had told Indra he didn’t know what he wanted to make of the Paradise, but in his heart that wasn’t true.

The only thing he had ever wanted was to make it a place that Abby and Jake Griffin - wherever they were now - might someday come back to.

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO  
(continued)**

Abby stood up so abruptly that she almost knocked over her water glass, stepping out of the booth to face the man standing beside her table. She had never been so stunned, or so relieved, to see anyone in all her life.

But the surge of joy in her chest was short-lived, from the way she could see his eyes eagerly scanning the bar, with increasing puzzlement, looking for someone who wasn’t there.

She still did it too, sometimes. Like he was just in the other room. Like he’d be back from the men’s room any minute. Like he’d just stepped away.

But he hadn’t.

“Jake died,” she said to Marcus, her voice dull and flat and numb. “I’m here alone.”

Then she watched as that handsome, kind face crumpled right in front of her.

The rest was easier; she’d had to recite the script so many times she could do it without feeling anything. An accident at work, three months ago, carbon monoxide poisoning, it had been over quickly, no pain. Her voice was clipped and cool and rehearsed, the words coming out exactly the same as they always had the other five hundred times she’d had to break this news to someone who hadn’t heard it yet.

But Marcus Kane was not misled by her air of practiced calm, and before she had even had the chance to lie that she was fine, he had closed the distance between them with one step and then she was in his arms.

“This will sound like a line,” he murmured into her hair with the ghost of a wry, sad little laugh, “since I seduce people for a living; but I’ve thought about you two every day for the past sixteen years.”

“We never forgot you, either,” she said back, face buried in his chest, as he stroked her back.

“He just had something about him,” Marcus went on thoughtfully. “Warm. That’s what he was. The warmest person I’ve ever met.”

Abby had not cried when Jake’s boss had called, and she had not cried when she went to collect the body, and she had not cried when she told Clarke, and she had not cried at the funeral, and she had not cried once on any of the eighty-nine days or nights since.

She had _almost_ cried thousands of times, but swallowed it back, over and over again, afraid that if she started, she would never, ever stop.

But standing here, in the quiet blue light of the wine bar, her face buried in the sleek gray lapels of a perfect Tom Ford suit, breathing in the light peppery floral scent of Marcus Kane's cologne mixed with something deeper and more primal that her entire body remembered, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her back and holding her close as though she were something beloved and precious - Abby cried for her husband for the first time.

 _“The warmest person I’ve ever met.”_

Marcus had understood the Griffins immediately. That was it, exactly. That was who Jake had been to her. The person who always kept her warm.

Two decades later, and Marcus Kane still remembered them. Halfway across the country, in that little Nevada town, a piece of Jake was still alive, and it always would be, because Marcus had not forgotten. After all this time. 

It made her feel lighter, somehow, in a peculiar way. Like the weight of keeping Jake’s memory alive was not, in fact, on her shoulders alone. 

There were pieces of her marriage - of her life with Jake, the love they’d shared, the way they’d made each other feel - that she could not talk about with her daughter. Some were even too private to share with her friends. But it would be something, she suddenly thought, to have a friend like Marcus Kane, who somehow made you feel as though there was nothing you could ever say that would shock or embarrass him. This was a person to whom you could tell anything.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, finally pulling away and looking up at him, “how badly I needed to hear that.”

“I’m so sorry, Abby,” he said, voice low and sincere and tender, cradling her cheek in his hand the way he’d done that first night sixteen years ago, when he’d made her come so hard she saw stars. “I’m so sorry.”

* * * * *

When she returned from the ladies’ room, mascara disaster repaired and feeling slightly more herself again, he was seated in the banquette, a second glass of wine and chocolate frangipane torte in front of him.

“I waited for you before digging in,” he said, “but I’d like you to know that it smells amazing and I’m starving so I feel like I deserve real credit for my restraint. I don't know what this is, by the way, I just told the waiter to bring me whatever you were having.”

“If you’re hungry, you should order real food,” she pointed out wryly, sliding into the booth beside him. “Cake is not dinner.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said primly, surprising a laugh out of her, and it was clear that he could tell how seldom she had laughed in the past three months.

“Please, no,” she said, with a theatrical sigh. “Not even as a joke. I’ve been surrounded by doctors for a week, and I’m absolutely exhausted. I just want to be Abby for one night.”

“Abby, then,” he said, smiling at her. “I take it you’re here with that medical technology exhibition at the convention center?”

“A week of hell which mercifully ended tonight. Yes. What about you? You’re several hours away from home; or do you live here now?”

“No, you were right the first time,” he said. “My parents both passed away, so I’m in charge of the Paradise now.” He brushed swiftly past this announcement, something which Abby did not fail to notice; he did not want to let the conversation linger on loss - or worse, obligate the grieving widow to extend sympathies to _him_. “I’m only in town for the night. I’m staying upstairs.”

Abby looked at him and raised an eyebrow questioningly. He raised one back, answering her with a wry grin. She laughed. “Am I keeping you?”

“No, we’ve finished. It was quite a workout,” he said, taking a long sip of his wine. “He was very . . . vigorous.”

“My goodness,” said Abby, trying to hide the faint flush rising to her cheeks by busying herself with her cake. “No wonder you’re hungry.”

“I find it incredibly charming,” he said in amusement, “given how we met, that somehow that embarrasses you.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” she said, without looking at him, which only made his smile wider.

“Ah. So I’m doing a good job of distracting you.”

“Yes.”

“Should I keep going?”

“Please.”

So he did.

He very rarely took clients anymore, he explained, unless they were extremely high-level VIPs - like the bisexual venture capitalist from Manhattan who’d paid for a chauffeur, a penthouse suite, and a staggeringly expensive spread of oysters and champagne, in exchange for three hours to do whatever he wanted with Marcus Kane's naked body. The man was fairly vanilla, Marcus had said; just good old-fashioned fucking, but a _lot_ of it. His back would be sore in the morning. He’d tipped housekeeping exorbitantly to turn over the room after his client had left, so all traces would be gone when he went back up to sleep. He’d planned to sit in the wine bar and read for an hour until it was ready for him, when he’d been startled beyond belief to see, sitting alone in a corner, the sixteen-years-older version of a face that still came to him in his dreams.

He said this to her quite straightforwardly; it was not an attempt to seduce her, or even to elicit any kind of a particular reaction. But it moved her deeply, all the same, and she placed her hand over his where it rested on the table.

“You still look good, for sixteen years,” she said.

“So do you.”

“A lot must have changed at the Paradise,” she said, and watched with fond amusement as his face lit up.

“If you’re really interested,” he said, unable to suppress the enthusiasm in his voice, “I have a hundred new things to tell you.”

Abby would have listened to him recite the periodic table, or read aloud from The Federalist Papers, so relieved and happy was she to have found a friend - a calming port in this jangling neon storm, a low quiet gentle voice with the power somehow to drown out all the exhausting cacophony. But as it happened, she was, in fact, burning with curiosity about what was new at the Paradise. The fact that it was still there, a little oasis of joy in the middle of the desert, was a source of genuine delight to her; and his love for it was visible in every line of his handsome face. 

Jake and Abby had always meant to go back to the Paradise someday, but they never had. "We should Google it sometime and see if it's still around," one of them would say, and "Oh, we totally should," the other would agree, and then neither of them would do it, out of some superstitious fear that all they would find was some local news article saying it had closed, or burned down - or worse, that something had happened to Marcus Kane. But while it lived only in their memories, and nowhere else, it was safe, and reality could not touch it; so it remained a wicked, decadent dream, the wildest thing they did in their twenties that they’d never told anyone, a welcome spark that kept an 16-year marriage fresh and exciting. “Remember when Marcus fucked you here?” Abby would sometimes murmur as she teased Jake’s ass with a slick finger, making him groan and tremble; or, “Let me eat you out this way, like Marcus did,” Jake would say, guiding her onto all fours, and by the time Clarke was in school Marcus had become something larger than life, a story instead of a person.

But the fantasy died when Jake did, and she’d spent the whole of the past week forcing all memories of that place - of their wild, whirlwind Las Vegas wedding, of the convertible zooming down Route 66 as Jake blasted Tom Petty and sang at the top of his lungs, of those decadent nights in bed with the arms of two men entwined around her, two mouths all over her body, two pairs of hands caressing every inch of her skin - down into the darkest corners of her psyche.

So to discover Marcus Kane again - here, of all places, and tonight, of all nights - felt like a miracle.

He told her about how he and his mother had expanded the property to nearly twice its size, buying up two abandoned neighboring lots and a defunct auto repair shop, to build a vast tropical garden, with winding paths, a hot springs and soaking pool, private guest cottages, and direct access to the hiking trails that led into the desert hills beyond. He told her how he’d partnered with a group of environmental scientists from a local university and that within the next three years the place would not only be carbon neutral, but water neutral as well; the grounds were maintained by waste water not only from the property, but the entire town. He told her they’d expanded to add all kinds of services his father would never have dreamed of - from relationship counseling, yoga and massage, to feminist BDSM workshops. He was courting the bisexual venture capitalist, in fact, because they’d been discussing the possibility of a branded line of queer-friendly, gender-neutral, size-inclusive sex toys; there was a distributor in Tokyo who was interested, and had a line on a few potential manufacturers. He told her about his staff, and while she immediately forgot almost every one of their names, the sheer affection in his voice was both endearing. He’d built a family for himself, out there, just as she had in Vermont, and this made her happy. It would have made Jake happy too. 

Marcus had a good life. He hadn’t been alone. He loved what he did, and he’d made it into something beautiful.

It felt strange to say she was _proud_ of him - someone she knew so little, comparatively; someone she’d spent a week with, a decade and a half ago, and never spoken to since - but still, she was.

“If I told you I’d like to see your hotel room,” she said, “would you take it purely to mean that I’ve never been inside a penthouse before and I’m wildly curious, and not presume that I’m trying to ask you for anything else?”

Marcus looked at her with an expression of sadness, wry amusement, and surprise that the question even needed to be asked.

“You were with Jake for two decades and you lost him three months ago,” he said gently. “And this is _me_ you’re talking to. Navigating boundaries is my job.” He swallowed the last of his wine and signaled the waiter to bring him the check before Abby could even reach for her wallet, waving her off with an insistence she didn't even bother trying to fight. “Would having a glass of champagne in a ridiculously overpriced hotel room make your last night in Las Vegas more fun?” he asked, as he pulled out his credit card and handed it to the waiter.

“I definitely think it would."

“Then I'm all yours," he said, and Abby gave him the first real, heartfelt smile she had given anyone in three months.

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO**

“Do you have a preference?” asked Jake.

Marcus rolled over drowsily to face him, careful not to disturb the sound-asleep Abby lying between them. “What do you mean?”

“Do you like men better, or women better, or do you just . . . like everyone?”

Marcus thought about this for a moment. No one had ever asked him to articulate this before. “I didn’t get a lot of . . . choice, in the beginning,” he said carefully. “That was when my father was more in charge. Mom doesn’t run things like that. I think he wanted me to like men more, because he thought it would turn out to be better for business. And I do like men.”

“But you like women too.”

“And I like people that don’t feel comfortable in either category,” said Marcus, with a shrug. “I think what I like is just . . . giving pleasure. I like the way it feels to take care of people.”

Jake smiled. “You’ve taken good care of us,” he said, reaching down and stroking his wife’s hair. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

Marcus looked down at her too. “If you’re doing it by the numbers,” he said, “there’s probably been more men than women. But Abby is . . . special.” He looked up guiltily at Jake. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t know if it’s okay that I say that. I don't want you to feel like I'm -"

 _Like I'm falling in love with your wife,_ he thought but didn't say.

But Jake only smiled at him, the way he always smiled at him, the way he always looked at you no matter what you said, or how fumblingly and hesitatingly you said it, as though you'd said the exact right thing. It was still a new thing, to feel so comfortable and at ease with another man; but there was no jealousy or violence in Jake Griffin, no toxic masculine need for dominance and control. He seemed take genuine pleasure in the pleasure of others, and whatever made Abby happy made him happy too.

"She _is_ special," he said to Marcus. "She’s tough, and she’s stubborn, and she doesn’t back down, and a lot of men find that threatening. She gets called 'difficult' a lot. You can imagine. But she's also a force of nature. Lightning in a tiny bottle. The first time she kissed me I felt like I'd won the lottery. I couldn't believe a big clumsy farm kid like me could even get a girl like that to look in my direction. I was in awe of her from day one. She's the best thing that ever happened to me." He reached out to run a gentle finger over Marcus’ lower lip. “So the sexiest thing a man could possibly say to me in bed,” he said in a low voice, “is that he’s also into my wife.”

Marcus shifted his weight very carefully to climb over the still-sleeping Abby and lower his body on top of Jake’s. “I’m very,” he murmured, kissing Jake’s throat with each word, “very, very, very, very into your wife.”

“Fuck,” Jake whispered, hips lifting, and his arms wrapped around Marcus’ back, fingers digging into the other man’s shoulderblades. “Keep talking.”

“She loves your cock so much,” Marcus breathed into his skin, rocking his hips and feeling Jake shiver in his arms. “Every time you enter her, she smiles. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jake chuckled. “Did you not notice she does the same thing with you?” he asked, a little incredulously. “Marcus, I don’t think you quite realize the effect you’ve had on us.”

Marcus halted and looked down at him, blinking in confusion.

“I thought,” he began hesitantly. “I thought this was just . . . who you were. What you were like.”

Jake laughed at this. “Marcus," he said affectionately. "You sexy fuckin' dumbass."

"Hey."

"You are as clueless as you are handsome, apparently." Marcus made a face at him, but Jake was off and running. "As oblivious as you are tall."

"Come on now."

"Your skull is the only thing thicker than your -"

Marcus, now laughing too, elbowed him lightly. "Stop it," he said, "we'll wake her up."

"Well, you started it," said Jake. "By being so hot and dumb."

"Jake -

"We were only gonna stay for one night," said Jake, his tone changing, like he was suddenly saying something real. "We were supposed to go back to Las Vegas and stay the rest of the week at the Luxor. We canceled like four sets of concert and theater tickets." He reached up and brushed his knuckles softly over the other man’s cheek. "I've never been with anyone besides Abby," he said. "And she's never been with anyone besides me. This was supposed to be a casual raunchy adventure; I thought we'd hang out in the playroom downstairs for a night and watch some strangers fuck and then fuck each other and it would all feel, you know, debauched and Vegas-y. Like you're supposed to, on your honeymoon. We did not plan on _any_ of this."

"You did only get stuck with me thanks to Rock Paper Scissors," Marcus pointed out.

"Yeah, the _first_ night," said Jake. "When we changed the reservation, your mom offered us the chance to take advantage of the duration of our stay to get to know some of the other concierges, and we told her we weren't interested. It might have been luck the first time, but after that it was just because you were the only one we wanted."

"Oh," said Marcus, who had not known this.

"I've never so much as looked at another guy in my whole life," Jake said. "To tell you the truth, I didn't even know I _wanted_ to. The people we are, when we're in this room, in this bed? We weren’t these people until we met you." He pulled the other man's face down towards him and pressed a soft, warm, fervent kiss against Marcus' cheekbone, his lips hungry and soft and insistent, kissing that same spot over and over until Marcus' whole body ached with regret that he couldn't turn his head just an inch and seize that sweet mouth with his own.

"I don't think you've figured it out yet," Jake murmured finally as he pulled away. “And I don't know how to say it in a way that you'll really understand. But sometimes you do catch lightning in a bottle twice in one lifetime, Marcus. You’re special too.”

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO  
(continued)**

The penthouse was as ludicrously opulent as Abby could possibly have hoped. It was one huge, semicircular space, all curved lines and mid-century modern glamour, an airier and more chic version of the kind of place she could imagine the Rat Pack hanging out. Across from her, a vast wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Strip, Caesar's Palace plainly visible among the neon lights, but in Marcus Kane's company she found she did not mind it, and could even find the vista a little bit dazzling. Centered beneath the windows were a pair of semicircular white leather couches and a vast gold-and-glass oval of a table between them, big enough to perform surgery on. Marcus disappeared into the kitchen and dining area, where she could hear him rummaging through a wine cooler to pull out a bottle, finding two glasses, and popping a cork; but at the moment, she was paying little attention. She had wandered over towards the right of the living room, and found herself facing a vast white-and-gold bed, very conveniently equipped with a padded headboard and a mirror on the ceiling, both of which made her blush so hard she could not quite look at them.

It wasn't just that it was so clearly a bed designed for fucking. It was the thought of Marcus, in that bed, being fucked by a man whose face she couldn't see, and the fact that - in its absence - her mind replaced it with the face of the only other man she had ever watched fucking Marcus. The combination of grief and loneliness alongside arousal and desire was all too much, everything on this side of the room was too much, and she felt another wave of emotion threaten to overpower her again.

So she decided to kill the mood the most effective way she knew how.

“I have a daughter,” she said, as Marcus emerged from the kitchen with the champagne. “We had a daughter. Her name is Clarke.”

Marcus stopped short, his whole face lighting up. “I’m absolutely _furious_ that you held that back until just now,” he declared. “Oh my God. You have a _kid._ Tell me everything.”

“She’s sixteen years old,” said Abby, and paused delicately for a moment to watch him do the math.

"Oh," Marcus said, and swallowed hard. "Was she -"

"We think so," said Abby. "Sometime between the week of the wedding and the day we left the Paradise, according to my doctor." She watched him carefully. "Is it weird," she asked, "that I told you that?"

Marcus shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just . . . a little overwhelmed. It's like a little miracle might have happened in that room when i was right there next to you and none of us had any idea. What a remarkable thing."

Abby smiled at him. "You look like you're about to cry," she said lightly, and he laughed.

"I'm all right, I promise," he said. "Getting soft in my old age, I suppose. It's just that . . . it almost makes me feel like, if your daughter was conceived at the Paradise, that in some small, strange way, even after all that time, that I stayed a part of your life."

"Marcus," Abby said quietly. "You _did_ stay a part of our life."

He looked at her, his warm brown eyes full of some kind of intense emotion, and only the realization of how close to each other they were now standing pulled Abby back to herself in time.

“We didn’t do a paternity test," she said, deliberately trying for a lighter tone, "because the minute she opened her eyes she looked exactly like Jake and nothing like me. But he used to joke sometimes that maybe if our baby was born with dark hair, it would give us an excuse to come back and visit you again.”

“You would never have needed an excuse like that,” said Marcus, but there was no reproach in it. He understood. He was not a person who was a permanent, fixed presence in most people’s lives, and he did not expect to be. He did not judge Jake or Abby for not having felt what he felt, for not uprooting their lives to come back to him. Especially not once there was a child to consider. “Tell me about her,” he went on, taking a seat with his glass of champagne on one of the white sofas, and gesturing to Abby to take the other, and just this little amount of distance between them helped the whole thing feel more normal again. Just friends having a drink in a living room, just two people discussing their lives.

So Abby did.

She told Marcus about Clarke’s art classes and how brave she’d been at the funeral and her unceasing pleas for a dog. She pulled out her phone and showed him photo after photo - Clarke as a toddler at the beach in Connecticut, Clarke in fifth grade proudly displaying the blue ribbon she won at the student art show, Clarke at homecoming and in the lacrosse playoffs. Marcus did not seem bored in the least, as she eventually realized she’d been expecting him to be - as all the men she'd been surrounded by all week were by the reminder that she had a child. On the contrary, he soaked it up, hungry for every detail of what her life had been like in the sixteen years since they’d parted, as fascinated by the seemingly mundane details of her existence as she was by the things that probably seemed pedestrian and everyday to him. 

From Clarke it was a natural step to Vera, and although Marcus' grief was still fairly recent, he was capable of talking about her with composure, and hearing him talk about Vera made it feel easier to talk about Jake. Hours passed that way, in a comfortable, easy haze of family stories and laughter. Champagne was, she felt, the exact right kind of drunk for this; red wine would have made her sluggish and sad, and Marcus, she remembered, had some kind of unexplained aversion to whiskey. But champagne kept things light, kept the conversation flowing, and Abby did not even realize how much time had gone by until she reached for the bottle and found it empty.

Marcus did not say anything, but watched the whole process play out across her face: the sudden return to reality, the depressing thought of that beige, desolate little room with its lonely desert view waiting for her back at the convention hotel, the disappointment that all of this was now over, the guilt over how much she wished she could prolong it, the confusion and unease about what would happen next if she did.

She stood up, finally, biting back her tears and attempting to be brave about it.

"It's late," she said. "I should go."

Marcus looked up at her, but did not stand to walk her to the door. "What does 'should' mean?" he asked. “That you _want_ to go, or that you feel like you _have_ to go?”

She had forgotten how annoyingly perceptive he could be.

“All my things are there," she said helplessly, "I leave tomorrow, I have to be checked out by eleven, if I don't go down and try to find a taxi now -"

Marcus remained seated. "None of those things are an answer to the question I actually asked you," he pointed out. "Abby. Do you _want_ to leave? This is your last night, and tomorrow is your last day. Would you rather spend it there, or here?"

"That's not - I mean of _course_ I would rather stay, but -"

"Then it's settled," he said, and she watched in astonishment as the whole business was resolved in five minutes with two phone calls. Apparently the penthouse came with a concierge, and that concierge had the phone number of the concierge at Abby's hotel, and everyone knew who Marcus Kane was, so a guest changing their plans at one in the morning to spend the night with him raised no eyebrows. Her room would be packed for her, her suitcases ready and waiting at the valet parking stand tomorrow morning, and Marcus’ chauffeur would take her back to pick them up before driving her to the airport.

She tried not to think too hard about the fact that everyone involved in this transaction would, very naturally, assume she was staying the night to fuck him.

Well, whatever. It was Vegas. They were probably used to it.

"All right," he said, hanging up the phone. "All taken care of. As long as you don’t mind having to wear the same clothes again tomorrow. Or sleeping in a t-shirt from the gift shop. I can run down and grab you one right now. Do you want ‘What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas,’ or something from the bachelorette party section with a really big glittery penis on it?”

“Are those my only choices?"

“Most of the stores selling real human clothes are only open until 8 or 9, sadly. We could try the sex shop on the promenade, they might have something.” 

“Marcus, I swear to God -”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, smiling, going over to the closet behind the bed, pulling a plain white undershirt out of his duffel bag and tossing it over to her. “Here.”

She changed in his bathroom, washing her face with the hotel soap and borrowing his mouthwash in the absence of a toothbrush. She felt a pang of regret over her sensible, high-waisted cotton briefs - heather gray cotton, the least sexy fabric in existence - but in a way it was a relief. Attraction would complicate things; in her faded gray panties and his borrowed, too-big shirt, face bare, hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, she didn’t feel like a woman spending the night in a glamorous penthouse with what might, perhaps, be the single most exclusive sex worker in the entire state of Nevada. She just felt like a boring middle-aged mom, having a kind of slumber party with an old friend.

Then she stepped out of the bathroom to see Marcus wearing only a pair of black cotton pajama pants, and could not stop staring at his bare chest, and then he looked up to see her wearing his t-shirt and almost nothing else, and could not stop staring at her bare legs, and for a long time neither of them said anything, the same inarticulate jumble of thoughts and emotions crowding both their heads.

Abby broke the silence first. “I want you to know,” she said quietly, “that if it was going to be anyone - now, or ever - it would be you.”

Marcus pressed his hand to his heart at this, regarding her with profound sadness in his warm brown eyes. “I think that might be one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me,” he told her. Overwhelmed by the unexpected depth of his emotional response to this, she turned away from him, desperate to find something to do with her hands to distract herself and something to look at that was not the sixteen-years-older version of the bare chest she had once spent a week exploring with her mouth and tongue. So she busied herself with extracting a pair of pillows and a white faux fur throw from the bed, and relocating them to the sofa she had recently vacated.

Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes on her. "Abby," he finally said. “What are you doing?”

“Making up the sofa, what does it look like?”

_"Why?"_

"Because a very nice millionaire paid for this penthouse so you could have that bed," she said. "I’m not kicking you out of it. But I also can't -" She paused, unable to look at him, fluffing the pillows far harder than necessary as a distraction. " . . . do anything," she finally mumbled under her breath.

"Please turn around and look at me," Marcus said.

"I don't know if I can."

"The masseuse at the Paradise is named Luna," he said, which was such an incongruous remark that it worked, lowering her guard just enough that she could turn back around to face him. He was seated on the edge of the bed, looking at her with serious dark eyes. "In April she took the whole staff through a week-long professional development training on touch therapy, and now it’s one of our most in-demand services."

"Touch therapy?"

He nodded. "It can vary widely," he said. "Anything from light massage, to simply people who want to be held for an hour while they take a nap, or have someone play with their hair."

Abby was skeptical. “People pay you just to, like, _cuddle_ them?” she asked, eyebrow raised dubiously. “And this isn't like a kink thing?"

"Luna isn't a sex worker. She keeps the lines very clear. Clients are clothed the whole time, for one, and they have to keep their hands to themselves. Touch therapy isn't automatically sexual any more than a massage is."

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“A lot of her clients are elderly,” Marcus explained. “Or sick and homebound. People who live alone and don’t get any human contact. Human beings _need_ to be touched. It’s vital for mental and physical health. And in a way it's a very natural outgrowth of something we were already doing; so many people come to sex workers for the physical experience of closeness and touch as much as for the orgasm. This just allows us to offer a new category." He observed her skeptical expression, and chuckled. "She'll be so annoyed at me for not explaining this right," he said. "She does it better than I do."

“Well, she’s not here, so I’m stuck with you.”

“Touch deprivation activates depression and has negative effects on the immune system,” he recited. “Positive touch reduces stress hormones and can significantly reduce anxiety levels.”

“Well, fine, if you’re going to be all doctor-y about it,” she said, teasing him lightly to cover for the fact that she had suddenly and uncomfortably realized what a turn-on it was to hear Marcus Kane use medical jargon.

"Did I get all those words right?"

"Very impressive. Tell Luna you nailed your elevator pitch. But I promise, I’m fine.”

"That's bullshit, and you know it," he said bluntly, silencing her. “You are most emphatically not fine, Abby. There is no possible human way that you could be. I understand why that's what you have to say to people. I understand why you have to be fine at work, why you have to be fine for Clarke, why you've had to be fine all this week, why you can't let the cracks show with anyone else. I get that. I do. But this is _me_ you're talking to, Abby," he said, rising from the bed and taking a step towards her, eyes suddenly so intense she could not tear her gaze away. "My whole job is about looking at people's faces and reading their thoughts, whether or not it matches the things they actually say out loud. And no one in the world is better at that job than me."

"Marcus -"

"The loneliness is killing you," he said. "You don't have to say it. It's all over your face. It's killing you to sleep alone in a bed that still feels like it should have someone else in it.”

There was no possible response to this. Abby felt the sting of tears at the corner of her eyes.

"And since I'm the only other person, as far as I know," he went on, "that you or Jake ever shared a bed with . . ."

"You were. You still are. There was never anyone else."

"Then let me be the person who keeps the ghosts away, for one night," he said. "For three months, you've been carrying this, and I couldn't be there for you, couldn't do anything to give you ease or comfort, because neither of us even knew where the other one was. But I'm here now. And I can do this. I can give you one night of real sleep. If you let me. I think you've missed being held at night, Abby, and I . . ." He paused slightly. "I've missed holding you."

“Marcus, I don’t know . . .” she began, as she watched him climb into the bed - the left side, Jake’s side, _my God, he remembered_ that _after all these years too? -_ and look back at her, holding out his hand. “On the house,” he promised, “and no funny business. Just sleep.”

Abby hesitated.

Then she thought about three months of tossing and turning in that big cold bed in Vermont, and the misery of the cheap shitty mattress in her room at the convention hotel, and she thought about how exhausting it was to keep up the facade she had to wear every day just to keep from falling apart, and she thought about those seven nights when she’d drifted off to sleep with Jake’s arms around her waist and Marcus’ head on her shoulder, and how she had never felt more safe or cherished in her whole life, and she realized how utterly ludicrous it was to be standing here trying to think of excuses not to do something she'd been wanting to do for sixteen years.

"Fine," she said, surrendering to the inevitable, climbing into the huge lush bed beside him, burrowing down into the mountain of pillows, and reaching up to switch off the bedside lamp.

"I think you've made a very wise decision," said Marcus, switching off the lamp on his side too, and pushing a button which lowered a pair of blackout curtains over the glittering neon vista of the Las Vegas Strip, leaving them in warm, cozy, quiet darkness.

Marcus rolled over onto his side to face her, his warm strong body curled up against hers. She could feel his breath on the her neck, his knees against the back of her thighs, his chest against her back.

"Is this okay?" he asked carefully.

What she thought was, It's _more than okay, it's perfect, it's the only good thing that has happened to me in the last eighty-nine days, and I want to stay here for the rest of my life._

But she couldn't say that, of course, so she did the next best thing, and made a joke instead.

“It's okay as long as you don’t think your client will mind you spooning a strange woman in the bed he paid for,” she said. “I would hate to be the reason you don’t get your name stamped on a line of signature dildos.”

The low rumble of Marcus Kane's laugh against her skin was the last thing she remembered as she drifted off, and within minutes, she was sound asleep in his arms.

* * *

**TEN YEARS AGO**

“Is everyone finally asleep?” asked Jake, as he opened the bathroom door, toweling off his damp hair and letting a rush of coconut-scented steam pour out into the bedroom.

“They’re in sleeping bags,” said Abby, “and the television is off, and the basement door is closed. What happens after that is beyond our parental control. You forgot to turn the fan on again.”

“What?”

“The fan. I’m getting high on shampoo fumes over here.”

“Maybe I’m trying to create a sexy tropical ambiance.”

“Maybe you’re trying to give us black mold.”

Jake balled up his damp towel and tossed it across the room to the bed, where it just barely missed hitting her in the face. Abby laughed, and tossed it back, hitting him square in the stomach.

“Is this what our marriage has become?” Jake lamented theatrically. “I’m standing here buck naked in front of my wife and she just wants to talk about black mold?”

“Well, we had a good run,” said Abby. “Probably time to call it quits and trade you in for a younger model. I’ve got my eye on that new Sherlock Holmes.”

“You don’t think he looks a little bit like a sexy stick insect?”

“Well, _now_ I do.”

“There you go, then.”

“There you go,” said Abby. “I guess I’m stuck with you.”

“Guess so,” Jake agreed, with a flicker of mischief in his smile, as he tossed the towel onto the bathroom floor, switched off the light, and made his way, still naked, over to the bed.

“Jake,” Abby murmured reproachfully. “We have half a junior high volleyball team in our basement.”

Jake wrinkled his nose. “First black mold, now kids,” he complained. “You’re working hard to kill the mood here, Doc.”

“Good,” said Abby pointedly. “Responsible, mature adults do not have sex with seven teenagers in the house.”

“They can if they do it quietly,” said Jake, as he pulled back the covers, switched off the bedside lamp, and climbed into bed next to his wife, rolling over to kiss her neck and tugging impatiently at her oversized t-shirt. “Come on. Get out of that thing.”

Abby raised an eyebrow at him. _“Eight_ teenagers in the house, apparently,” she said dryly, but she did take off her glasses and switch off the lamp on her side of the bed too, which Jake counted as a win.

“All the books say you gotta work to keep the spark in a marriage alive.”

“Jake, we had sex _this morning.”_

“Yeah, but that was like . . . sixteen hours ago. It’s out of my system already.”

Abby laughed and swatted him playfully on the shoulder, but when he moved to pull off her baggy sleep shirt again, this time she didn’t stop him, sighing contentedly as he lowered her down onto the pillows and the warm, drowsy weight of his body blanketed hers. His hands were firm and certain as they roamed over her belly and breasts, knowing exactly how and where she liked to be touched, and his lips and tongue were just as sure as they grazed the delicate flesh of her throat, knowing exactly how she liked to be licked and kissed.

Then his fingers slid down inside her cotton panties, and he pulled away from her, looking down at her face with mingled arousal, amusement and indignation.

“This,” he declared firmly, _“better_ not be for Benedict Cumberbatch.” Abby covered her face with her hands to muffled her laughter, though the giggles subsided as Jake’s fingertips continued to skate lightly over the silky wet flesh of her cunt, making her squirm and wriggle to capture more of him. “Seriously,” he whispered, kissing her neck again. “What were you thinking about while I was in the shower?”

“Baby, stop it, you’re killing me,” she panted, “the kids are going to hear.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No, I just, I can’t - oh, fuck, Jake, that feels so good . . .”

“So tell me what you were thinking about,” he chuckled, kissing her throat as his warm, damp, naked body pressed hers down into the mattress, “and I’ll make it feel even better.”

“I was thinking about Nevada,” she whispered. “I was thinking about _him.”_

Jake’s reaction to this was instantaneous, a full-body shiver and a low, hungry moan that seemed to come from the deepest part of him, as he tugged her panties off to throw them onto the floor and resumed his gentle caresses. “You were thinking about Marcus?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I was thinking about the third night,” she whispered, gasping as his finger began to trace teasing little circles around her clit. “When we fucked you together. How it felt to watch your face when he . . . when he . . .”

“Oh God,” Jake groaned into her shoulder, and she could feel, pressed against her hip, a very clear indicator of how much pleasure this particular memory brought him too.

“It’s so unfair,” she laughed breathlessly. “He does this for a living, he’ll have forgotten all about us by now, there will have been thousands of other newlywed couples for him to fuck, but here we are, twelve years later, still dreaming about him.”

“I bet he remembers us,” murmured Jake, chuckling. “We were pretty goddamn good.”

“We’re still pretty goddamn good,” she said, parting her thighs and clutching hard at his hips, pulling him into her, seizing his mouth with her own to swallow his moan of pleasure before it escaped and threatened to wake up the kids downstairs.

“Mmmm,” Jake sighed into her ear as he felt her stretch deliciously open for him. “Yes, we are.”

That was the last articulate thing either of them said for a long time.

The Griffins were luckier than most of the middle-aged married couples they knew; fifteen years of marriage had not taken this away from them. There were more obstacles in the way, now, as far as finding the time or the privacy to actually _have_ sex; but the sex itself only got better, as the years only taught them how to better memorize each other’s bodies, hit the perfect pleasure spots each time, sink immediately into comfort and intimacy and authenticity. Abby at nineteen had felt obligated to show off in bed with Jake, to impress him, to paper over her own shyness and lack of experience. Abby in her thirties, however, knew exactly what she wanted, and the two of them could read each other without a word needing to be said.

Jake knew that when Abby was fantasizing about Marcus, she wanted him hard and slow and deep. Abby knew that when Jake was fantasizing about Marcus, he wanted to be stroked gently and delicately in a very particular spot.

“The way it felt to look at him,” she whispered into his ear, “when he and I fucked you together . . . like he was an extension of myself, and me of him, like we were two halves of one whole with no purpose except to make you come as hard as we could . . .”

“Keep talking,” he whispered, his hips rolling against hers, “keep talking about Marcus, it makes me so hard when you talk about Marcus -”

“I remember the way his face looked, the first time he was inside you,” she gasped, one hand sliding over his hip to palm the hard slope of his ass, making him moan. “He looked so soft, suddenly, he was so _happy,_ I’ve never known anyone who loved giving other people pleasure so much . . . it was like every time you made a sound, he felt it in his whole body.”

“I loved watching him fuck you too,” Jake whispered. “You were so beautiful together. I could have watched for hours and hours. I thought I would be jealous, but I wasn’t at all. I just wanted to lie there forever and watch him fuck you over and over and over again . . .”

“Jake, baby, I’m -”

“He made you come so hard, didn’t he?”

“Fuck, Jake -”

“I’m close too,” he groaned, “I swear to God, thinking about him -”

“I know, I know, it’s so, it’s -”

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered in her ear, “come like he’s here watching you. Those big dark eyes looking down at you and smiling and telling you how beautiful you are.”

And she did.

She buried her face in his shoulder and came with a low cry, muffled against his skin. Then her finger began tracing gentle circles around the entrance of his ass, teasing it lightly, and this sent Jake over the edge only moments after her, gasping and shuddering against her breast as she held him close and stroked his delicate skin with her fingertip.

They lay there together in silence for a long time, eyes closed, breath shaky, both of them imagining the same pair of dark smiling eyes, the same gentle hands stroking their hair, the same low voice murmuring, “You’re so beautiful when you come. I could watch you all night long.”

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO  
(continued)**

Abby woke to sunlight, the warmth of a body next to hers, and the smell of coffee.

Any other day but this one, the combination of those things would have been a gut-punch of grief, a sign that a dream had lingered into waking and that she would be conscious and aware of it - horribly, painfully aware - as Jake slowly faded away again.

But today was different.

She had slept soundly, and remembered little of her dreams except that they were warm, pleasant, comfortable little things. The ghosts had not returned.

“Good morning,” said Marcus, as she stirred and let out a drowsy yarn. He was sitting up in the bed beside her, sipping from a china cup and reading the newspaper, which meant that the first thing Abby saw when she opened her eyes was the smooth golden skin of the side of his body and the jut of his hipbone beneath the cotton pants, and some distant, primal voice inside her wanted badly to press her mouth against it to hear the sound he would make.

 _Jesus Christ, Abby,_ she thought to herself, slightly mortified, _control yourself._

Marcus seemed oblivious to her inner torment, and in an excellent mood. “Breakfast for two is, apparently, included with the room," he said, "though by 'two' I assume they meant 'fifty,' so I hope you are ridiculously hungry.”

Abby propped herself up on her elbow and realized that a tray table the entire length of the massive bed had been set up at some point while she was still sleeping, laden with what looked like an entire Vegas buffet’s worth of food. Mimosas, tropical fruit, crab cakes, delicate mini quiches, a basket of croissants, lidded hot serving dishes which smelled like eggs and bacon, a stoneware crock of oatmeal with fruit and nuts and cream in tiny dishes beside it, and a massive silver coffee service.

"Is this a reflection of the level of appetite the hotel staff assumes you worked up last night?" she inquired, sitting up in bed and accepting the cup of coffee he had already poured her, which made him roar with laughter.

"I'm very good, but I am not this good," he said, pulling the tray closer towards them so the whole feast now lay more or less on their laps, everything in easy reach.

"You win," she said, reaching for a chocolate croissant. “This alone was worth staying for.”

“Crab cakes in bed in a hotel room someone else is paying for is the most important meal of the day,” said Marcus solemnly. “I’ve said it for years."

"Yeah, that sounds like an old Las Vegas proverb."

He laughed at this, turning to look at her, eyes bright with merriment, and it was impossible not to grin back at him, and Abby felt a surge of happiness inside her chest so bright and sharp that it almost hurt.

"We'd better dig in," she said, "or we'll never finish this before we have to check out."

He waved this off. "It's just after eight. My checkout is at eleven, same as yours. We have plenty of time."

Abby could not help thinking that if the man who had paid for this suite was the one lying in bed beside Marcus right now, they would be doing a whole lot more with those three hours than enjoying a leisurely breakfast, and maybe if she was a different person or this was a different life, she might be doing the same, and the thought of it made her so sad that she set down her coffee and reached for a napkin to wipe her eyes. Marcus watched her, and said nothing, but let his hand rest over hers in silence for a long, long time.

"Crab cakes are revered in many cultures as a potent therapeutic tool for grief," he finally said, passing her the plate, which made her laugh, and then the painful moment ebbed way, like a cloud passing over the sun, and she was herself again, and she suddenly found herself realizing how important it was, to hold onto this moment: to remember that there would always be good things, even in the midst of the darkest and most brutal grief.

Jake was still dead. Jake would always be dead. But the sun still rose in the morning, and the Paradise Hotel was still standing, the world still had chocolate croissants and stupid jokes and 5000-count sheets and old friends in it, because Marcus Kane had found her again when she was lost in the darkness, and she was not alone.

"Are you okay?" he asked, as she picked up her coffee, and breathed in the heady aroma.

She turned and looked at him, and smiled.

"I really am," she said, and meant it.

* * * * *

The whole concierge scheme went off without a hitch, as promised. Her bags were packed and waiting by the valet stand as the glossy black town car glided into the turnaround of her hotel, and were loaded into the trunk without her having to lift a finger. They made idle small talk on the drive to the airport, with both each other, and the driver, a friendly Eastern European guy named Laszlo, who apparently was the bisexual venture capitalist’s go-to personal chauffeur whenever he was in town. He’d driven him to Eden before, and knew exactly who Marcus was, so their conversation was breezy and comfortable, and Abby marveled at how easy he seemed in his own skin, how sure of himself he was. There was no shame in Marcus. His life seemed happy. 

It would be so restful, she thought, to wake up every day and be that certain of who you were.

Laszlo rolled up the partition between himself and the backseat as they pulled up to the airport, to give them a little privacy to say goodbye. But for a long time, Abby didn’t move.

“What if I didn’t get out of the car?” she said suddenly, voice so quiet Marcus could hardly hear her.

“Then you’d miss your flight.”

“Okay,” she said. “What if I missed my flight?”

“Then you’d be stuck driving all the way back to Eden with me.”

“What if I went back to Eden with you?”

Marcus looked at her for a long, long time, lifting his hand to cradle her cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I can’t believe,” he finally said, with the ghost of a sad little smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, “that you’re making _me_ be the boring, responsible grown-up in this conversation.”

“Marcus -”

“You have a whole life in Vermont,” he said. “You have a daughter, who still lives at home. You have work that matters to you. And you’ve only had three months to figure out how to live without your husband.” He kissed her forehead, gentle and sweet and sad. “You aren’t ready to come back to Eden, Abby,” he said. “You were hardly ready just to share a bed with another body. You are not finished with the work of grieving, and it might seem like sex will heal that ache, but it won’t.” He caressed her cheek softly. “I could give you everything,” he murmured, “I could give you all of myself, I could make it so good for you, I could make you come a thousand different ways - and I still wouldn’t be Jake. And Jake is what you want, Abby. Jake is the body you want lying in bed next to you. You’re still right in the middle of this. Grief takes time.”

“I don’t want to get on that plane and lose you again,” she whispered. “I can’t lose him and you too.”

Marcus laughed and pulled out his phone, and then Abby watched as a text popped up on her screen.

_< You’ll never lose me.>_

“I took the liberty,” he said, “of exchanging our phone numbers while you were sleeping. Technology is a wonderful thing.”

“Oh,” said Abby. That there was a middle ground between running away with Marcus, and losing him again forever, had genuinely never occurred to her.

“Anytime you’re feeling lonely, or sad, I’m just a text message away,” he promised her. “We aren’t going to drift apart for another sixteen years. I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend.” He kissed her forehead again. “You changed my life, the first time I met you,” he said. “You and Jake. You stayed in my heart. You were always special to me. I hoped, sometimes, that you’d come back. Just getting to see your face again, after all this time - it feels like a fucking miracle.”

“You’re the miracle,” she said. “You saved me last night.”

“Go catch your plane, Abby Griffin,” he said. “Go back to Vermont. Go hug your daughter, and save lives, and grieve for your husband, and _live._ And text me so I know you got home safe.”

“Goodbye, Marcus,” she said, as she stepped out of the car. “I don’t want this to be the last time I ever see you again.”

He smiled at her, as he watched her walk away, and the last thing she heard before the car door closed behind her was, “I can’t imagine that it will.”


	8. Anima Mea Liquefacta Est Ut Locutus Est (“My soul melted when he spoke”)

**FOUR YEARS AGO**

Bellamy had, as it happened, managed to put the pieces together before the woman behind the desk rose and said Marcus Kane’s name.

But just barely.

* * * * *

It began about three weeks ago, with a comment on his website. He’d never heard of the Paradise Hotel before. One of his subscribers sent him a link to a job posting, along with a playfully lewd comment pleading for him to let his fans know the minute he got hired (as they were all certain he would), so they could start saving up for plane tickets.

He laughed it off, at first. He made an okay living as it was, just from online content, and Wyoming wasn’t very expensive. He wasn’t really looking for a career change this drastic. Not to mention, of course, that at first blush the whole thing sounded like a _transparent_ scam. Full-time salary? Benefits? Room and board onsite? “Professional development opportunities?” Nobody ran a brothel like this.

But the website looked real, so if it _was_ a scam, it was a scam with an extremely high-end graphic design team. More out of curiosity than anything else, he sent a brief message of inquiry to HR@paradise.com, and received an automated reply with a link to an online application form, along with an attached PDF which looked more like a casting breakdown for a movie than anything else. It seemed the Paradise was extremely particular, and this was not an open employment call; they had exactly one slot open, for a bi- or pansexual male between 25 and 35 who was comfortable topping or bottoming with any gender.

Perfect.

The first phase of the application process was simple: a few basic biographical and medical questions, a headshot, and an audition reel of 4-7 minutes (“either solo or partnered are acceptable; must include full frontal nudity, full rear nudity, and at least one real orgasm”). It only took him about fifteen minutes to pull the whole thing together, so he figured, well, if it _did_ turn out to be a scam, at least he wasn’t out any real effort or time.

Then he hit “send”, and forgot about it.

A week later, he got an email congratulating him on being one of the small handful selected out of hundreds of applicants to move forward in the process, and asking if he was available for an interview over Skype or Zoom. Having seen every episode of MTV’s _Catfish,_ Bellamy took heart in the fact that someone was willing to video chat with him, which seemed to decrease the odds of the whole thing being a grift, so he decided to do some sleuthing. But as he pored over the message boards where seasoned clients of Nevada’s legal brothels posted about their experiences, it began to seem as though the Paradise was not only quite real, but possibly exactly as extraordinary as its website claimed. It was Nevada’s only even remotely queer brothel, for one thing; the other half a dozen or so still operating catered almost exclusively to cishet men who wanted cis women. And in those establishments, not only did the house take a hefty cut, but all your income came from clients. The Paradise, by contrast, was able to offer such a generous compensation package because of all the many other services it offered, from the completely non-sexual (relationship counseling, seaweed wraps, champagne brunch) to the erotic-but-hands-off. The job for which Bellamy had thrown his hat into the ring was an 80/20 split; apparently, he’d be spending the majority of his time as a performer, doing scenes with the other members of the staff onstage for audiences, and only 20% of it with clients - a ratio which considerably minimized risk, while very likely maximizing the quality of the sex he'd be having, if most of his partners were other professionals.

The terms only impressed him further once he finally heard back from a chic young woman named Gaia, who FaceTimed him from the headhunting agency in Los Angeles that did all the first pass-throughs on prospective applicants. She showed him a sample rate sheet, and his eyes widened; suddenly the salaries made a lot more sense. He’d be permitted to be choosy about his clients, and the services he performed. No one at the Paradise was ever expected to perform scenes that made them uncomfortable or required skills or predilections they didn’t have. This was where the hotel’s unique “alternate services” menu really paid off. The live performances were pricey, but exponentially more affordable than actually hiring a concierge, and offered a diverse and varied assortment of options to please every palate. There was an intimacy coordinator and choreographer on staff, the woman had explained, with over a decade’s experience in both dance and adult film, and a Hollywood fight coordinator on retainer who flew out a few times a year to train anyone who wanted to learn the skills necessary to work in the dungeon. Bellamy had little interest in this, which fortunately wasn’t required for his position, but it made him like them better that the section on the job posting about professional development had turned out not to be bullshit.

He kept waiting for the catch, and it never came. By the end of the interview, Bellamy realized he’d never wanted a job this badly in his life. 

Three days later, he got another email, inquiring about his availability to schedule an onsite interview with Indra, the office manager. He would be on his own for travel arrangements, but if hired, they would reimburse him for the costs, along with offering him a full salary, room and board at the Paradise for a two-week training and orientation period, while permanent quarters were made ready for him. He’d take no clients during that time, but would be asked to perform at least once, to get used to the experience; it was more like cam work than a film set, she explained, in terms of sightlines and angles, and it took awhile to get the hang of remembering where your audience was and how to move around with a partner. He’d also train with several members of staff to rehearse a few different scenes, and the woman warned him to be prepared for live sex in an empty room under a choreographer's guidance to feel awkward at first.

Bellamy was not about to complain about a little bit of awkward in exchange for eighty thousand dollars a year and the first employer-paid health insurance of his life.

So he packed an overnight bag, panicking mildly over everything from condoms and lube ( _I mean, it’s a brothel, right, surely they'll have condoms? But what if they don’t? Or you’re supposed to bring your own? What if I need one and I don’t have one and that’s part of the test? Okay, just shove a whole box in there just in case_ ) to the pressing question of how one ought to dress for a job interview where the job will generally not require clothes. Then he bought a Greyhound bus ticket, loaded his iPhone with podcasts and audiobooks for the ten-hour drive, rolled into the Eden bus terminal about six p.m., and that was when he finally discovered the catch.

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO  
**

"How come we have to live here now, Mama?"

Aurora Blake looked down at her young son, gamely attempting to drag his own suitcase through the dusty street at her side. They could not afford a taxi from the bus station, so they were forced to walk the rest of the way.

"It's not forever," she said to Bellamy, which even at seven years old he understood wasn't an answer.

"But how come though?"

"Because," she said, choosing her words with care. "Seven years ago, I . . . lost something. Some _one._ And I have been trying to find her again, to get her back, ever since."

"Who is it?"

"I promise I'll explain everything, if it all works out," she said to him. "I don't want to get your hopes up in case it doesn't. I don't want to make you sad."

"Why would it make me sad?"

"It's complicated, baby. Really complicated."

"What's this place called?"

For the remainder of her life - which was not, in fact, a great deal longer than this, though she did not know it - Aurora Blake would wonder why she had not answered this question. Wishful thinking, perhaps. If the town had no name, it would live more lightly on their memories, and someday both her children might forget it. She did not plan to stay here long. She had a daughter to collect - a daughter who had arrived here only today, along with a van full of other women and children and a few other men and _him,_ en route to Nevada after being unceremoniously evicted from the last small rural town where they'd attempted to put down roots - and she had a little money. Plus the house in the mountains was still in her name. He could have all of it. Surely that would be enough. He hadn't really wanted a child anyway, he'd only wanted to hurt her. But he had other concerns now, and more importantly he had other children now - other wives now - so Aurora and the twins could not possibly matter to him anymore.

Surely, taking one mouth to feed off his hands would be a relief.

"It doesn't have a name," she lied to Bellamy. "It's nowhere important. Just a stop on the way to someplace else."

"Back home to Seattle?"

"I hope so, baby," she said. "I really hope so."

She did not know, as she smiled down at her young son - trotting along at her heels in his new cowboy boots, a guileless smile on his freckled face - that none of them would make it back to Seattle.

Not Aurora.

Not Bellamy.

And not the twin sister Bellamy had no idea existed . . . whose name even her own mother did not know.

* * *

**FOUR YEARS AGO**   
_(continued)_

The dusty Greyhound depot hadn’t changed at all in eighteen years.

For a terrible period of his very young life, he had been uprooted from the only home he knew - a little apartment in a rainy green city where his bedroom window looked out over a lake, a city full of tall shiny buildings with a market where you could watch people throw great big fish at each other and catch them - to a dry, dusty desert town, for reasons his mother had never fully explained. She had come here looking for something, but never told him what, and it seemed that she must not have found it before she died. Bellamy had hated it here - hated it from the minute he arrived, hated it even more when he was forced to separate from his mother, hated it with a burning white-hot fury after she died and the men tried to force him to stay without her.

He'd run away, and when he told the bus driver exactly where he was running away from, she'd taken pity on him and given him a free ride to her next stop, a few towns over. He'd made it a few days before getting picked up by a police officer for sleeping on a park bench, but since he didn't know the name of the town he'd just come from - and since all he was willing to tell of himself was that he'd come from Seattle, he had no friends or family, and his mother had died - that was the beginning of several years being bounced around from foster home to foster home. A few were okay, but most were terrible, and he always ended up running away and starting over somewhere else. He'd ended up in Wyoming at sixteen, and managed to get an under-the-table janitorial position with a very sketchy company that hired mostly undocumented immigrants, so they weren't particularly fussy about paperwork. A Dominican family he worked with traded him a free room in exchange for teaching the parents English, and that was the happiest permanent home Bellamy Blake had known since the day he boarded the bus from Seattle with his mother.

The Dominicans were religious, so out of respect and the desire for privacy, he'd moved into his own place when he started supplementing his janitorial income with sex work, but he kept doing the English lessons anyway.

Bellamy was very good at pulling up roots and starting over, and out of necessity, he'd learned how to block out the memories he didn't want. When he moved on from a place, he was done with it. He never went back. Not even to Seattle. Not even to the last place he'd been happy. His whole life had been a series of rooms whose doors he closed behind him when he left.

So he was not prepared for the moment when he opened his eyes, after a long, pleasant podcast nap, yawned, stretched, turned to look out the window, and felt his stomach clench into a knot so tight he felt bile begin to rise in his throat.

He had never known the name of the town. But he remembered his first and last glimpses of it - the dust-covered bus depot, the sprawling desert landscape behind the Greyhound sign, dirt roads and square houses and the jagged brown teeth of the hills beyond. Every detail was burned into his memory, like he'd left this place only yesterday.

So this, then, was the catch.

He should have expected one, really. Nothing in life is free. He should have known he could not enter Paradise without paying a toll of some kind. And he'd arrived prepared for all the most obvious ones. Maybe he'd arrive and the place would actually be a shithole. Maybe there was fine print in the employment contract that he didn't know about yet. Maybe they'd pair him with someone he wasn't attracted to, or who was a terrible fuck, and he'd have to just live with it. Maybe he'd never get over whatever his _thing_ was, in bed, with men, the thing he could never quite stop himself from doing, where he disappeared and shut himself down until it was over. Maybe they'd spot that in his audition and it would be a dealbreaker. Maybe it would all be perfect and wonderful and exactly as promised but he'd lose out to another candidate who had a bigger cock, or something.

No, he'd prepared himself mentally, he'd worked to keep his hopes manageable, he'd arrived prepared for at least _something_ to be less perfect than advertised.

But returning as an adult to the terrifying, nameless town he'd fled as a child was not a possibility he had considered.

(No. Not nameless. "Eden." It had a name. It had always had a name. There it was, on that ancient, decrepit sign. Mom had lied to him.)

But here he was. The tradeoff, apparently, for the kind of job that would change his life forever, was that Bellamy could no longer keep all his ghosts safely buried. This one, he would have to live with.

He felt a shiver of fear skitter down his spine as he hoisted his overnight bag and backpack to disembark, but dismissed it as childish. _No one will recognize you,_ he told himself firmly. _No one will remember your mother, or your name. No one is looking for you here. Everyone who would remember you is probably gone anyway.  
_

And he had to admit, as he made his way down Main Street (technically he could have afforded a taxi, this time, but the woman behind the desk at the bus station seemed dubious that the town's one cab driver, who was currently eating dinner with his family and did not like to be disturbed during mealtimes, would make it here in less time than it would take Bellamy to walk to the motel), that the town itself was less frightening than he had remembered. It seemed cheerier, more colorful. At age seven it had looked like a cowboy ghost town from an old cartoon, he had thought; just dead brown buildings with nobody around. But now there was a wine bar and a hair salon and a small gym where he could see what looked like a yoga class taking place inside the glass windows. Restaurants were full of people. There were flyers hanging in shop windows advertising things like high school plays and a summer craft fair and last year's Santa Lucia Day Festival.

Eden had turned around, somehow, and he found this comforting. It didn't seem, anymore, like a stop on the way to someplace else, like Mom had said.

It seemed like a place where real people lived, and liked it here.

Maybe Bellamy could be one of those people. Maybe it would turn out that the ghosts were gone, after all. Maybe the darkness wouldn’t find him here.

He could do this, he insisted to himself. He could live here. He could make this work.

He’d called Indra from HR once he reached the motel, to confirm the details for tomorrow. She’d been brisk and taciturn on the phone, but she’d also seemed to genuinely like him. When he told her where he was staying, she recommended the Shamrock next door for dinner (“try the bacon and caramelized onion burger, you’ll thank me”). She also made it clear that the job was his to lose. “You’re one of two finalists for the position, which I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, “and you’re favored for the position because the recruiters liked your tape better. They said you had a warmer energy.”

“Thanks,” said Bellamy, trying to sound composed and professional, struggling to keep the exuberant hope surging in his chest from making him sound like an embarrassing dumbass on the phone.

“9 a.m.,” she told him. “Early is on time. And it won’t just be me you’ll have to impress. If it goes well with me, I’ll send you to Mr. Kane, the owner. He’s a very nice man but _incredibly_ busy and we never bring him in until the very last phase of the process. He won’t have seen your tape, I’ll be lucky if he remembers tomorrow that we’re even _having_ job interviews, but if he likes you, that’s the most important thing. He’ll be in charge of your training, and he’s the primary scene partner for the male/male performances that are assigned to this position, so it’s important that the chemistry is right.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Bellamy had said, without really thinking about it, and by the time he was seated in Charmaine’s rear booth with a book and a pint and a caramelized onion burger, he’d forgotten all about both Indra and Mr. Kane.

Then the man in the green cashmere sweater had walked in the door, and he’d forgotten everything else.

* * * * *

The first faint alarm bell began to ring in the back of his mind, as he settled into the chair across from Indra’s desk and accepted the cup of coffee she offered him, when she asked if he’d had dinner at the Shamrock. “Oh, did you meet Charmaine?" she asked. “She used to work here. Practically family to the Kanes.”

The second came when a pretty young blonde girl, endlessly repeating “I’m _so_ sorry, I’m not here, ignore me, I didn’t want to interrupt!”, tiptoed in to hand Indra an envelope labeled “REIMBURSEMENT RECEIPTS,” and as she left Indra said “Thank you, Harper.” It was an unusual name for a girl, Bellamy thought, and suddenly found himself wondering where he’d heard it recently somewhere before.

The third was the photographs.

He’d met Indra at a side entrance to the building, adjacent to the staff parking lot, and been led to her office by way of what was clearly the employee-only wing. But he’d caught sight, a few times, of hallways that seemed to lead to more public areas, where the walls were hung with massive, artistic black-and-white pictures. No faces were visible, only bodies, but he suspected these were all the various performers of the Paradise. Here, a woman’s graceful hand with long, dark nails digging into a male back; there, a muscular male thigh with just the faintest shadow of a slope of buttock receding into the shadows. Erotic, but tasteful.

Indra had smaller versions of many of the same portraits hanging in her chic chrome-and-glass office. At least one was clearly her: a hand cupping a breast, nipple and areola hidden from view. (Bellamy found his respect immediately increasing for anyone secure enough in their own body to have a picture of their own tits hanging over a file cabinet labeled "Monthly Financial Statements.") A pair of folded hands, as though in prayer, which appeared to belong to an elderly woman, hung over Indra’s shoulder, and he wondered if this was the recently-deceased founder Indra had mentioned, the current owner’s late mom. It wasn’t an erotic photo, obviously, and wasn’t intended to be, but there was something deeply moving in it, and he found he couldn’t look away.

Until Indra rose from her desk to retrieve the copy of the job description she wanted to review with him, and his gaze followed her over to the printer, where another portrait was hanging.

A man’s neck and left shoulder, tendons standing out in sharp relief as his gaze turned to the right. An ear with a shaggy lock of dark hair falling behind it, and just out of frame, the shadow of a dark beard.

Bellamy felt his heart stop beating.

He’d spent most of last night with his mouth and tongue buried in the hollow of a throat remarkably similar to that one.

A throat belonging to a man who seemed, somehow, to know everything there was to know about sex, but had pulled away from Bellamy’s first kiss to apologize that he hadn’t done that in a long time.

A man with an earnest desire to teach Bellamy how to love being fucked, simply because he believed everyone deserved to love the things their own bodies could do. A man who taught a frightened, closeted virgin how to locate his frenulum on a cucumber, without mockery or laughter, but as a gift.

A man who was immediately recognized on sight by the Daughters of Eve, whose seething hate and revulsion for him seemed particular and specific. They’d clocked Bellamy as a godless sodomite too, after all, but the looks he got were nothing in comparison.

A man who shared nothing of his own life - no mention of work, no personal stories, no last name - but had known exactly what to do with Bellamy the moment he sat down at that table.

A man who had saved one of the Daughters, and brought her to his place of work, and had said her name was Harper.

 _Oh, fuck,_ thought Bellamy, all the oxygen leaving his lungs at once, at the precise moment that Indra rose from the desk across from him, looked over his shoulder, and said the man’s name.

* * * * *

Marcus recovered first.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Blake,” he said, voice perfectly composed. “Thank you, Indra. I’m so sorry I was late.”

“We missed you at staff breakfast,” she said, a little pointedly, “otherwise I would have reminded you.”

Marcus did not look at Bellamy. “I was out,” he said. “I had an early errand and only just arrived back. I can take it from here. Mr. Blake, have you had a tour of the Paradise yet? I’ll show you around.”

“Oh good,” said Indra. “I’ll join you.”

Marcus hesitated just a little too long. “Great,” he finally said.

“Great,” agreed Bellamy, a little helplessly, and followed them both out the door.

Afterwards, he remembered virtually nothing of his first glimpse at the inner workings of the Paradise. There was a hallway which Marcus explained led to the staff quarters and their private dining room, a break room/lounge where they had weekly staff meetings, and a few more offices which they didn’t go into, all of which Bellamy forgot almost immediately.

He paid somewhat more attention when they reached the floor below, where a kind of velvet-roped lobby contained two pairs of ornate carved doors, one labeled “Red Room” and one labeled “Blue Room.” 

“These are our two smaller performing spaces,” said Marcus, who appeared to Bellamy to be talking a mile a minute either to hide his own discomfort or to prevent Bellamy from getting a word in edgewise that might give the game away. He seemed extremely full of hyper-specific minutiae about the theatres, and a few times even Indra seemed to reproach him gently that their guest could not possibly find all this information about the acoustics very interesting.

Once the doors opened, however, Bellamy was, in fact, very interested. Indra had explained to him in great detail how much sex he would be having in both of these rooms, and that a significant percentage of it would be with Mr. Kane, which made it extremely difficult not to immediately begin visualizing exactly that.

“The Red Room is our second largest performing space,” Marcus said, ushering them into a huge Baroque bedroom with scarlet damask wallpaper and a massive curtained bed in the center, surrounded by velvet sofas and armchairs and chaise lounges. “It can hold about thirty. The scenes we do in here are more artistic; you’ll have wardrobe, some dialogue, at least a basic storyline or plot.”

“You and Marcus will probably be in here two to three times a week,” said Indra. “More, if you’re popular. It doesn’t look like much now, with the house lights on, but I think you’ll find once you’re in costume and under real lighting, it makes the chemistry much easier.”

Neither of the men looked at each other. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Bellamy finally said, as tonelessly as he could, while Marcus busied himself with examining a nonexistent rip in one of the bed draperies and muttering something about getting wardrobe to fix it.

“I’ll show you the third one later,” said Marcus, leading them through what he confusingly referred to as the “green room”, even though it was gray, a kind of combination dressing room/staff lounge which connected both the stages. “It’s in the other building. It’s really just an ordinary black box theatre, and there’s nothing in there tonight so it won’t be terribly interesting. But it’s our bread and butter, because it’s the largest and the cheapest. It holds up to three hundred. We use it for scenes that have broader, mass appeal; Octavia’s dungeon scenes happen there - she’s our domme, you’ll meet her at dinner - and every once in awhile we’ll bring in burlesque or striptease artists, things like that. You probably won’t log much time on that stage, it’s really her and Roan’s domain - you’ll meet Roan later too - but from time to time when there are group sex shows we’ll move them in there. More than three people in the Red or the Blue Room and sightlines are just a mess."

“Sure,” said Bellamy, wondering with increasing desperation how much longer it would be before they could shake off Indra and Marcus would actually talk _to_ him instead of _at_ him.

“This is the Blue Room,” said Marcus, pushing open a door from the green room and leading them into a space that was actually mostly white, a flat expanse of concrete floor leading to a large rectangular pit, like one of those sunken living rooms from the 1970s. A pair of small steps led down to a rectangular couch running the whole circumference of the pit, in the center of which was a thick, blue-gray pad, like the floor of a boxing ring. “The audience gets quite close in this one, as you can see. Performers are in the center. It looks like shit with the house lights on too, even more so than the other one, but it’s really the lighting that makes it blue. Our designer is quite good, by the way, we poached her from a theatre in Los Angeles.”

“We’ll probably start you in here with Marcus once or twice a week,” said Indra, “and let the two of you figure out from there if you’re comfortable with more. It can be very vulnerable having the audience so close, and they’re also invited to be a bit more . . . active, in here.”

“Oh,” said Bellamy. “So they can like . . . touch us, and stuff?”

“Absolutely not,” said Marcus immediately, “no one will touch you but me,” a comment which threw them both into awkward, miserable silence.

“They can touch themselves, is what I meant,” Indra explained. “Or each other, with consent of course. Couples who attend together, and so on. But no, there’s a hard line, and anyone who crosses it knows they’ll be thrown out and forbidden to come back. We keep our performers safe.” She looked at her watch. “I have a call with the bookkeepers in about ten minutes,” she said. “Why don’t I walk you back up to the office so Bellamy can collect his things, and then you can finish the interview while you show him the grounds?”

“Great,” said Bellamy, and “Great,” said Marcus, and they silently followed her back up the stairs. Bellamy retrieved his bag from her floor, shook her hand and waved goodbye as Marcus closed her office door behind them, shooting Bellamy a wordless look which clearly meant _Don’t say anything yet,_ as he led him down the hallway. They walked in silence, occasionally passing other staff members - to whom Marcus smiled and waved but, very notably, did not introduce or even acknowledge Bellamy - until they reached a wing which appeared to be staff quarters. Each room had a different name on the door. Marcus stopped in front of one labeled simply #12, with the nameplate empty, and pushed it open to reveal a roomy kind of studio apartment, with some very basic, bare furniture (an empty bookshelf, a bed frame with a mattress but no linens), as though someone had just moved out.

Marcus ushered Bellamy inside, closing the door behind him, then leaned back against it, letting his head drop heavily against the dark wooden surface with a quiet thunk, releasing a long-pent-up sigh which seemed to echo from the depths of his bones.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” he said wearily, “you walk into mine.”

* * * * *

From the moment their eyes had met in Indra’s office, Marcus had felt the whole world beginning to spin out of control. All his effort became focused on a single, solitary goal, which was to stop himself from blurting out _For the love of God, don’t take this job_ in front of Indra. If anyone found out he’d had a personal romantic assignation with a prospective new hire, there would be no way to avoid the appearance of a massive conflict of interest.

No, that was equivocating. It wouldn't _appear_ to be a conflict of interest. It would _be_ a conflict of interest.

_At least be honest with yourself, Marcus._

But that wasn’t why this bothered him, and he was at least self-aware enough to acknowledge it.

For a moment - just for a moment - he’d thought he might have found something real, and now it was gone again.

Bellamy didn’t say anything for a long moment, giving Marcus time to look around the vacant room - the quarters which would, in two weeks, if he said yes, become Bellamy’s home - and imagined them with Bellamy living in them. There would be books everywhere. It would smell like coffee. Understated, neutral colors, probably, lots of blues and grays. Potted plants. The fanatical tidiness of someone who had never had very much to begin with, so he took care of all the things he had.

He’d sit up against the headboard in his shorts and t-shirt, with his glasses on, and a cup of tea, in the dim golden light of a bedside lamp, reading Joseph Campbell, until Marcus rolled over and took the book out of his hand and switched off the light and lowered him down against the pillows and then . . .

But none of that could happen. Not anymore.

“We need to talk this out before you sign anything,” Marcus finally said. “To make sure we’re both . . . clear.”

Bellamy stared at him. “Sign anything?” he repeated. “I thought you were still deciding. I thought this was still the interview.”

“I can’t possibly just pick up where Indra left off, like this is a normal application process,” said Marcus helplessly, moving across the room to take a seat on the bare mattress. “I can’t just _interview_ you, Bellamy. I think the only way to make this work is that you have to decide. Tell me whether you want to stay or go, and I’ll respect whatever you choose.”

“What about the other candidate?”

“I don’t care about him. I care about you.”

He regretted his choice of words immediately, but Bellamy didn’t seem to notice, as he finally set down his bag and made his way over to sit beside Marcus on the edge of the bed. “Marcus, I didn’t even know a place like this _existed,”_ he said. “It feels like the best thing that has ever happened to me.” He took the older man’s hand in his own. “Two weeks of . . . training with you,” he murmured. “That’s what Indra said. Just like you offered me back at the motel.” He lifted Marcus’ hand to his lips, and pressed a light kiss on the warm brown skin of his knuckles. “I feel like some fairy godmother just appeared out of nowhere and handed me everything I didn’t even know I wanted.”

Marcus gently extricated his hand from Bellamy’s and rose from the bed, moving away to put some distance between them. “It’s not that simple,” he said quietly. “There are . . . a lot of ways it could create problems among the staff if I was perceived to be - playing favorites. Or more attached to you than to the other people who work here. Having had an, um, a personal encounter before you even started your job -”

“I don’t mind not telling.”

“And nothing more could ever - that is, there are rules about personal relationships -”

“We’d be having sex like six times a week,” Bellamy pointed out.

“Work sex isn’t the same,” Marcus cautioned him. “You know that. You aren’t new at this. There will be a choreographer in the room with us when we’re training. There will be an audience in front of us when we perform. It’s never going to be just you and me in a motel room again.”

Bellamy rose from the bed and made his way over to Marcus, and reached up to take the man’s jaw in his hands. “I can live with all that,” he said. “It’s kind of hot, actually. Thinking about you fucking me in front of people.” 

“Bellamy . . .”

“Were you picturing us together, in those rooms? Because I was.”

“Of course I was,” Marcus muttered. "Why do you think I kept fucking rambling on about lighting and acoustics?"

“Yesterday I thought I would only get one night with you, and there was a chance I’d have to get back on a bus today and never see you again,” Bellamy said. “Today I find out that I get to be with you practically every night. I can’t understand why you seem sad about this. I don’t see any downside here.” Caressing the older man’s beard with his gentle fingers, he tugged Marcus’ mouth down toward his own and moved in closer, lips parting, hungry to kiss him.

He was caught completely off balance when Marcus pulled abruptly away, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” the older man said, and it was clear from his miserable face that he was. “But you also can’t ever do that again.”

“Oh,” said Bellamy, and then it was silent for a long time. He had registered this rule when Indra went over the hotel’s policies, but only as it pertained to himself; that is, he understood that a client could not kiss him, but it had not occurred to him that he could not kiss Marcus.

Marcus, on the other hand, had been unable to think about anything else.

“I’m sorry,” said Bellamy. “I shouldn’t have - I forgot. I won’t do it again.”

Marcus sighed, scrubbing his hands wearily over his face. “There’s no way to say this out loud that isn’t awkward as hell,” he said, “but I have to say it. If you think there’s any possibility that you and me becoming more . . . physically intimate - even in a professional context - could lead to emotional complications, either now or in the future, I think we have to address that as a factor. And you’re the person in the far more vulnerable position here, which is why, as I said, I’d feel more comfortable if the decision was in your hands. I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting any kind of pressure on you in either direction.”

“Are you,” Bellamy began. “Are you asking if I think there’s a chance that having a lot of sex will make me fall in love with you?”

“Jesus,” Marcus muttered, turning away to pace closer to the window. "This is excruciating.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” said Bellamy. “I’m aromantic." Marcus stopped and turned to look at him sharply, but said nothing. “It means I don’t, you know. Catch feelings,” Bellamy added helpfully.

“No, I know," said Marcus quietly. "I know what aromantic is.”

“So if that’s the piece you were worried about, then we don’t have a problem. I’m a safe fuck, I promise, Marcus. I’m not going to fall in love with you. I’m not going to make this messy. But I like you a lot. I think you’re great. And I think this place is amazing. And getting to see you every day, and have awesome sex with you - however weird it is at first, to get used to - and learn all the things you said you wanted to teach me, and have a real, safe, stable job for the first time in my life - and not just a job, but a _home_ . . .” He grinned at the older man then, the brilliance of his smile beaming out and lighting up the room like the sun. “I feel like I won the lottery, man,” he said frankly. “If you’re asking me what I want, I want to stay. More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Marcus looked at him for a long time, weighing the exuberance of Bellamy’s joy - the way he had said the word _"home"_ like a person who'd lived all of his life without one - against the heavy, sad little knot inside his own chest, and felt like the biggest asshole who ever lived for even _considering_ trying to talk him out of this.

Bellamy was never, ever going to fall in love with him. This was a known fact now. He had saved Marcus from himself, by making this clear before Marcus said something he regretted, before he pushed for something Bellamy simply could not give him.

And at least this way, he could see him every day.

“Then you’re hired,” said Marcus, and held out his hand. "Welcome home."


	9. Ego Dormio et Cor Meum Vigilat (“I sleep, and my heart watches”)

**PRESENT**

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

_She should have known the moving van was suspicious. There were no “For Sale” signs up anywhere in the neighborhood, for one thing. And nobody moves on a Wednesday. Every time she walked out her front door, there it was, and every time she came back home, there it still was, and three days was an awfully long time for a moving van to just sit on a quiet residential street, outside a house with no “For Sale” sign, and no one coming or going. No one hauling a couch out of the back, or propping open the front door to holler “Those go in the living room!” at the burly guys hauling boxes._

_Just a big white U-Haul truck, sitting silently across the street._

_She should have said something to Clarke. Called the police. Called Marcus, even. Called_ someone. _But she’d noticed it without noticing, it hadn’t really registered as a fact that_ meant _anything - the way nothing really registered anymore, the way_ nothing _meant anything, because the fog of loneliness and loss all around her kept everything at arm's length._

_It was the fog that blinded her to what was happening, until it was too late._

_The old Abby would have seen the man in the shadows of her rhododendron bushes. The old Abby would have noticed, as she got out of her car, alone on a dark street, that the back of the moving van was open for the first time, and that someone was sitting behind the wheel, with the engine running. The old Abby had the sharp reflexes and instincts of a surgeon, eyes that missed nothing, trained to spot the first inkling of_ something wrong _which could lead to disaster, and head it off at the pass._

_But this Abby was tired, and sad, and the only thing she was really thinking about was whether she’d done a decent job of concealing from her daughter the fact that she’d been crying in the car._

_She missed all the signs._

* * * * *

_When she comes to, she has no idea how much time has passed, but she is definitely in the back of that U-Haul truck, and it has definitely hit the open highway. She cannot imagine that whoever took her was dumb enough to leave the heavy steel rolling door unlatched; but even if they were, at this speed, attempting to escape would definitely kill her._

_Though, to be honest, it seems possible she could be about to die anyway._

_And no one will ever know what had happened to her, because no one will have any reason to connect her disappearance to the truck parked across the street, and the cops will have no idea where to begin looking, because she hadn’t thought to say anything about it to Clarke._

_Clarke has no idea where she is._

_The sharp acid sting of tears at the corner of her eyes wakes her up, a little, and she forces herself to sit up._ Stop it, Abby, _she commands herself._ Think.

_She shakes off the last of the dull, bleary, heaviness in her limbs, and smells the faintest trace of chloroform floating in the air. That’s a good sign, actually. They haven’t been sedating her, they only knocked her out. Shorter recovery time. Maybe she hasn't been in here that long. Maybe they haven't taken her very far yet._

_There is a tiny ghost of a light coming from somewhere high above; one of those battery-powered lamps you stick on the wall in basements or closets. It’s dim, and her eyes are struggling to adjust, but she’s patient. She begins with her other senses first._

_She's lying on a mattress. Not a great one, but clean. It smells new. She doesn’t know what that means, but it means something - everything means something, that's her med school training coming back, the slightest flush of pink on a patient's skin or a minor rise in temperature or the slightest irregularity in a fetal heartbeat can be a clue, so nothing can be too insignificant to file away for later in case you need it._ _She’s not wearing her own clothes anymore; she’s in some kind of shapeless cotton sack of a thing. No shoes. They even took her bra and underwear away, the only thing so far that has made her angrier than being chloroformed._

_Someone touched her body without her consent, and she doesn’t even know who._

Focus, Abby. Save your anger for later. You’ll need it.

_So no clothes and no shoes. That means probably no purse, or cell phone, or money, anywhere within reach. They were thorough. But she isn’t tied up, or gagged, and this interests her enough that curiosity temporarily dampens fear. She’s almost certainly locked in here, and her eyes have adjusted enough to confirm that she’s entirely alone. There’s a steel wall between her and the cab of the truck, and if there was anyone else on this side of it with her, she’d be able to hear their breathing; but there’s no sound besides her own heart, and the vibration of tires on smooth concrete._

_She returns her attention to the mattress. Mattresses, plural, she realizes, as she looks around. Three of them. She’s lying on one, shoved into the far back corner of the truck. One is duct-taped to the wall beside her, and the third behind her head._

_Like a padded cell, she thinks, as a panicked, hysterical laugh bubbles up uncontrollably from her chest, and she has to clench her fists and swallow hard to repress it._

_Okay. Why? Why the mattresses?_

_Because they aren’t planning on stopping, she realizes. She’s clearly supposed to sleep back here, which means wherever they’re going, it’s probably a long drive. More than twelve hours, most likely. If she’s lucky, she’ll get occasional breaks to relieve her bladder and maybe get food or water; what happens in the next few hours will give her a great deal more new information about how they plan to treat her, exactly what kind of prisoner she is . . . and maybe whose._

_It pains her to do it, but she decides to opt for feigning compliance, and maybe even fear. It’s too soon to tell what opportunities for escape might come her way if they stop the van; but barefoot, with no money, in the middle of the highway, she wouldn’t get very far on her own. If she earns their trust, gets them to let their guard down, doesn’t fight back the first time, she’ll be able to gather a little more information._

_It occurs to her that maybe the mattresses on the wall are connected to the fact that she isn’t tied up. If they hit a pothole, she could go flying, and hit her head. Possibly, then, this means whoever took her doesn’t want her injured - and it definitely seems that they don’t want her dead. They could have dumped her body by the side of the road hours ago, after all. They wouldn’t have taped mattresses to the wall to keep her from getting a concussion._

_No, someone wants her alive, and uninjured, but they also think she’s docile enough that it wasn’t worth bothering to restrain her._

_They_ want _something from her, she realizes. Or they want to use her for something. Something only she can do, or that only she knows. That’s why they’re treating her comparatively well, for a kidnapping victim. Because at a certain point, she’s going to come face to face with someone who needs her to cooperate, and that’s a damn sight harder to do if you’re bleeding from a head wound._

 _But who could it be, and what the_ fuck _could they want?_

 _Abby Griffin is nobody. She’s a retired doctor in a small Vermont town. She has no rich relatives or secret offshore bank accounts to make her worth an exorbitant ransom. She doesn’t have any secrets interesting enough to blackmail someone over. She’s never gone on vacation to Russia and accidentally wandered into an espionage ring, like in the movies, and the fact that Jake sometimes did business with the federal government doesn’t exactly mean she has access to the nuclear codes. None of this makes any_ sense, _she thinks, frustrated by the illogic of it all. Why would you kidnap someone who isn’t even important enough to have any enemies? Who could possibly -_

“Oh no,” _she whispers out loud, voice hoarse and rusty from disuse, echoing softly off the metal walls of her new prison, as the truth finally sinks in._

_She might not have any enemies herself; but she knows someone who does._

_Someone who would do anything, pay anything, sacrifice anything, surrender anything, to keep harm from coming to a single hair on Abby Griffin’s head._

_She’s not the target, she realizes, as a knot of panic begins to rise in her chest._

_She’s the bait._

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO**

> **Abby:** _ <I got home safe> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <thank you for making me get on the plane> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <you were right, it was all too soon> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <I was thinking about you on the plane and I started crying in the middle of “Despicable Me 2” and I think the guy next to me thought I was crying AT the movie> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <okay first of all> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <why on earth is THAT what you were watching on the plane> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <second of all> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <I’m really, really sorry for how hard I’m laughing right now> _
> 
> **Abby:** _< I don’t know, it was between that and “Argo” and I didn’t want anything I would have to pay attention to>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <was it also maybe because you thought it would annoy you and you would rather be annoyed than sad> _
> 
> **Abby:** _< stop doing that>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <doing what> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <being right about everything> _

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO**

It was nearly dawn, and Marcus was not asleep.

He certainly should have been. Jake and Abby had been determined to make the most of their last night at the Paradise, and they’d worn Marcus to the point of exhaustion. He was sore everywhere - his back, his thighs, his ass, his jaw; even his _hair,_ which Abby had spent rather a lengthy portion of the evening tugging at impatiently. The two of them had collapsed in a blissed-out, sweaty, sated heap after the last round of orgasms, and Marcus should have too. Lord knows he’d tried. He did not often get the opportunity to spend the night in the hotel’s guest beds, which were infinitely more comfortable than his own.

No, his body was heavy and slumbrous and pleading for rest. It was his mind, it seemed, which he could not quiet.

Lying on his side, his head propped up on one elbow, he watched the two people sleeping beside him. Eyes closed, faces still and serene, chests rising and falling in perfect synchronicity. Abby was in the middle, on her back, caramel-gold hair tumbling out across the white pillowcase. On her other side, Jake’s body was half-draped across hers, one thigh hooked over Abby’s own, one arm flung across her torso, resting beneath her breasts.

From a distance, they would look like one single shape, he thought. One peculiar, two-headed, four-limbed creature. No distance between them at all. They slept like this every night, in a wide variety of tangled-up positions, which always led to laughter and teasing in the mornings - Jake complaining that he’d awoken with Abby’s hair all over his face, Abby retorting that it served him right for rolling over in the middle of the night and squashing her hand.

(To the man observing them, the obvious solution seemed to be _not_ to sleep with their arms and legs all tied up in knots; but that never seemed to occur to them.)

Marcus did not have a great deal of experience with happy marriages. He had not, it need hardly be said, grown up with one in his own home. Married couples visited the Paradise all the time, of course, but Marcus spent little time with them. He had never had the opportunity to _observe_ a marriage before, and Jake and Abby were continually surprising him.

They had only been wed a day when they arrived here, though they had been living together for several years already. But there was already something fundamentally, essentially _married_ about them, something that already spoke of permanence and stability and made it easy to imagine them growing old together. They were connected to each other in a way he found astonishing. Sometimes when Marcus traced circles with his tongue around Abby’s nipple, Jake’s cock would twitch between his thighs as though he could feel the touch on his own body. Sometimes when Jake entered him, Abby would moan and lift her hips, like she could feel Jake inside her too. This kind of intimacy was baffling to Marcus. How remarkable, he thought, to know another person’s body so well that it became eventually a kind of extension of your own. 

Very little in Marcus Kane’s life was permanent, and sex certainly was not. Sex was a short-term service you provided to people who passed in and out of your life in pre-determined intervals, maybe as short as an hour, maybe as long as a week. Sharing a bed with these two tangled-up bodies so close to his same age, their life seemed as alien to him as if they were medieval royalty, or they lived on the moon. He did not, now, in his early twenties, envision any kind of future for himself where anyone stayed around long enough for their body to become half of his own, like this. He would never have what Jake and Abby had.

The thought did not bring any self-pity or regret with it, particularly; it was simply the truth. He had learned to manage his hopes. Certainly he did not want what his parents had; if he was very, very honest with himself, there was a part of him which thought that it might not be such a terrible thing if one day his father just skipped town, leaving Marcus to lead a comfortable, quiet life of solitude with his mother for company. This intensity of affection the Griffins shared was quite simply beyond his reach, but when Harry Kane was not around, it was possible to be content, almost happy, and that was enough. 

Or, it had been. Now he was not so sure.

Abby’s face in repose was a work of art; dark eyelashes resting against creamy skin, the aristocratic angles of cheekbone and jaw. Jake’s head was buried against her shoulder, but Marcus admired the muscular slope of his back and buttocks, the pale golden hair shadowing his thighs and darkening around the slumbering cock that rested against Abby’s hip.

They were so beautiful. They were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

And tomorrow, they would be gone.

They would wake up in the morning and check out of the Paradise and drive to the airport, and by evening someone else would be sleeping in this bed - Marcus beside them, perhaps, or perhaps not. He was not yet sure where he went from here, exactly. His father knew that, in his absence, Vera had assigned Marcus to the Griffins; and though he’d stomped and shouted and flung some ugly words about Amsterdam in his son’s direction, he had not - for whatever reason - actually intervened to stop it. Marcus had been so relieved not to be torn away from them after one night that he’d almost cried in front of his father, an unfathomably dangerous thing to do; but he’d managed to swallow it down and leave the room without revealing anything Harry Kane could use against him.

If he knew how much the Griffins had come to mean to Marcus, he would take them away, just because he could. Just to remind Marcus who was the father and who was the son - who was in control here, and who was not.

But he had grudgingly allowed the situation to proceed, since - as Vera pointed out - the customers were extremely pleased with him, and insisted upon keeping him the rest of the week. But it still remained to be seen whether they would be his first and last; or whether, when the next round of guests checked in, his father would see the potential for further profit, and assign him again to the concierge rotation, even if only as an understudy for Charles or Jacopo or Thelonious. It all depended, he supposed, on money.

It was not the financial transaction itself which unsettled Marcus, which made Harry Kane’s approach to an experience which could be so transcendent feel grubby and mercenary instead. On the contrary, it seemed fairly healthy to him, a way to set clear parameters to the mutual benefit of both. And after all, he reasoned, a person could have an utterly sublime and life-changing culinary experience for free in the tiny stone kitchen of an elderly Italian grandmother, or for hundreds of dollars in the dining room of an internationally-famous Michelin-starred chef; whether or not money changed hands might in the end have very little impact on the experience itself.

No, it was not the fact that Jake and Abby Griffin had paid for his time. That was a gift. That meant for a whole week, he _belonged_ to them; and the feeling of belonging to them was heaven. A whole week inside this fragile, delicate bubble of pleasure and peace and intimacy and joy, which even Harry Kane had not yet managed to puncture.

But he _would,_ eventually. This contentment could not last forever. There would be a muttered, nasty comment while he was doing the weekly financial report, wondering aloud why anyone would have paid so much money for a concierge so inexperienced and useless. Or Vera would ask Marcus how his time with that nice young newlywed couple had gone, and Harry would already have forgotten they existed, because they were invisible to him, they were dull and forgettable to him, they were dollar signs and nothing more, and Marcus could never explain to his father what an extraordinary thing he had witnessed - the way two people could love each other so much that their bodies contained their own language - without revealing a hidden weakness which could be used against him later.

So they were his secret, for now.

In his sleep, Jake made a low, whuffling, snorting sound, like a contented dog. Abby stirred but did not wake. 

Like she felt Jake’s breath in her own chest.

Extraordinary.

Marcus pressed the tip of his index finger against his bottom lip, then reached out gently and touched it first to Abby’s mouth, then to Jake’s. The kiss he could not give them. And they could not feel it, so they would never know; but maybe, just maybe, the kiss would follow them home, on that plane to Vermont, and stay on their lips, as they kissed each other, for all the months and years and decades of kisses that lay before them, and then it would be like some tiny part of Marcus was still there with them.

It would comfort him to imagine that, as he lay here alone in his own cold, lonely bed, holding the Griffins like a secret inside his own heart.

It would comfort him to pretend he belonged to them still.

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO**

“Can I ask you an intrusive personal question that is absolutely none of my business?”

Abby laughed. “That’s a hell of an opening,” she said, tucking her cell phone between her chin and shoulder to fish through her purse and pull out the granola bar Clarke had stashed in there for her, as she elbowed her office door closed. “You’ve definitely got me hooked.”

She could hear Marcus chuckle through the phone, and the sound made her feel warm all over. They still texted constantly, but since she came back from Vegas last month they’d slowly begun shifting to phone calls - even brief, casual ones - because the heady pleasure of actually being able to hear each other’s voices was still so novel and thrilling.

“Fire away,” she said, sitting down at her desk and shoving a stack of patient files aside. “I have a fifteen-minute break, I’m eating a granola bar at my desk, and I forgot my book at home.”

“Oh, if you’re at work, I won’t bug you,” said Marcus immediately.

“Please, _please_ bug me,” Abby implored him fervently, which made him laugh again. “It’s been a very boring day. Which is great for, you know, patients -”

“Yeah, a hospital is one of those places where you probably don’t want your days to be _too_ interesting.”

“Exactly. Which means I spend most of my time puttering around with nothing to do except annoy Jackson.”

“Can’t you just wander down to the ER and try to get in on a pickup surgery?” suggested Marcus helpfully. “I know nothing about how your job works, by the way.”

“Yes, that was clear.” She laughed again, through a mouthful of granola bar. “Ask me your nosy question,” she said, shrugging out of her white coat to make herself a little more comfortable, settling in for another pleasant Marcus-shaped break in the workaday routine of her life.

He hesitated for a moment. “Okay,” he finally said, “but please know that you’re under absolutely no obligation here, and that there truly isn’t a right or a wrong answer. It’s just something I was curious about, but there is no secret reproach buried inside this question.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. “Well, now I’m intrigued."

Marcus took a deep breath. “I was wondering,” he said quietly, “if Clarke knows about me.”

Silence.

Abby chewed and swallowed and set down the granola bar in her now inexplicably-trembling hand, and tried for a long moment to remember how breathing worked.

“Abby?” Marcus said her name tentatively. “Are you still there?” He was quiet for a long time, waiting, before he finally spoke again. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ve upset you. We don’t have to - And you’re at work. That was inappropriate and none of my business. I won’t ask again.”

The guilt in his voice was what finally snapped her back to reality. “No, no, it’s okay,” she said hastily, before he hung up the phone to go punish himself for this. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . complicated.”

“I understand.”

“It’s a perfectly fair question,” she assured him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Still.”

“I told her that when I was in Vegas I ran into an old friend,” Abby said. “She asked if it was a man, and I said yes. Then she asked if it was a date, and I said no.”

They were both silent for a long time at this.

“I wasn’t quite sure whether that was a lie or not,” she admitted quietly, “though it was definitely an oversimplification. I just . . .”

“No, I get it.”

“I told her that I spent the night in your hotel room, because you had a penthouse and I wanted to see it, but that nothing happened, between us,” she went on, swallowing hard, thinking of all the moments over the course of that night where some part of her had wished that something _had_. “I didn’t tell her it was in the same bed.” She sighed, leaning back heavily in her chair. “I don’t know,” she said frankly. “It was hard to split hairs with her. To decide what to share and what to leave out. This is one of those situations for which there are, in fact, no helpful chapters in all the parenting manuals.”

“How did she . . . take all of that?” Marcus asked carefully.

“Well, definitely wary when I said you were a man,” said Abby frankly, “and relieved when I said nothing happened.”

The pause that followed this was just ever so slightly too long. “That makes sense,” Marcus said, in a neutral voice. “Her father has only been gone for a few months. It would be too soon for any teenager to have to adjust to any more big changes.”

“She doesn’t know about you and me and Jake,” Abby said, a little guiltily, though not sure why. “That was just never a conversation he and I ever figured out how to have with her. Even once she was old enough for, you know. The sex talk. But still, no child wants that much detailed information about their parents’ bedroom activities. Or their own conception.”

She tried to laugh this off, a bit, lightening the tone, but Marcus didn’t join her.

“I understand,” he said. “I can see the logic in that.”

That peculiar feeling of guilt stung her again. “I don’t want you to think I’m ashamed of you,” she said softly. “Or embarrassed. Or that you don’t matter.”

“Abby,” he said gently. “I told you there were no right or wrong answers here, and I meant that. I just wanted to know.”

“You want to know if you’re a secret I’m keeping from my daughter.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I don’t _want_ you to be,” said Abby, a little helplessly. “I want you to meet her someday. I want you to know her.”

“I would really like that,” he said, in a voice almost too low to hear.

“I want there to be a real place for you in my life, Marcus,” she said. “It’s just . . . going to take some time to figure out what that is.”

“Abby, I’m not asking you for anything more than this,” he said gently. “Just being able to talk to you every day is a gift. I’m not pushing you for more. I’m grateful for what we have.”

For some reason Abby could not quite name, this answer was not quite as comforting as Marcus clearly intended it to be. Why? It was the right answer. Leaving things alone was the healthier choice, and Marcus was more respectful of boundaries than anyone else in the world. He would never push her.

(Did she . . . _want_ him to push her??)

“I wouldn’t worry too much about Clarke,” Marcus added. “She’s young, and she’s been through so much already. It makes sense that she would spook at the picture of you having a one-night stand in Vegas, so soon after losing Jake. That doesn’t mean she’ll never be able to let you move on, it just means right now it’s way too soon. You both just need to give yourselves some time.”

“Thank you,” said Abby, and meant it.

“Is your break almost over?” Marcus asked.

Abby looked at the clock. “Shit. Yes. I have to return some patient calls.”

“I’ll let you go,” said Marcus. “I have to go down to props and dig out my fucking vampire fangs.”

“I’m sorry,” said Abby, “you have to do _what?”_

“Please don’t ask.”

“Can we trade jobs for the day? Yours sounds way more fun.”

“Sure,” said Marcus. “I’ll sit at your desk and call your patients back and recite medical jargon I picked up from _E.R.,_ and you can put on my stupid cape and go rehearse vampire sex with Callie.”

“There’s a _cape?”_ exclaimed Abby, unreasonably delighted by this.

Marcus gave a bone-deep, world-weary sigh. “Please don’t start with me.”

“I _have_ to hear the rest of this story,” Abby said. “I’m home tonight about one a.m., will you still be awake? Is that too late?”

“No, that’s perfect,” he said. “There’s a bachelorette party here this weekend, and they paid extra for a private midnight show with Anya and Roan.”

“And . . . you?”

“No, I don’t have to perform, but I do have to go put on a suit and charm the guests. The bride comes from Silicon Valley money, and this is her first visit. So we’ll be getting home around the same time.”

“Okay, call me when you’re back in your own room. I just have an incredibly long list of follow-up questions about the fangs and the cape and this whole situation and you’ve provided almost no helpful details, so you’re just going to have to start from the beginning and tell me the whole thing.”

“I cannot overstate,” said Marcus, “how much I regret revealing this.”

Abby pulled her phone away from her ear, tapped a few times in the text message window with Marcus’ face at the top, and hit send. A moment later, she heard him snort.

“A gif of the Count,” he said dryly. “Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, go do your important life-saving job,” he said. “I’m going to go do my weird and embarrassing one.”

“I’ll talk to you later tonight,” said Abby. “One a.m. Don’t forget.”

“Never,” said Marcus. “Goodbye, Abby.”

“Goodbye, Marcus.”

* * *

**FIVE YEARS AGO**

> **Abby:** _ <important logistical question> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <good evening, how can I help you> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <did you have to take a poll before you decided to grow a beard or did you just do it> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <like was everyone who has to perform with you given an opportunity to veto> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <is this your way of telling me that you don’t like the beard?> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <no I think it LOOKS great> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <thank you> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <but I’m not the one that has to DEAL with it every day> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <on, you know> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <sensitive areas> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <first of all, I’m the boss and I can do whatever I want> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <that’s a great attitude> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <I bet you’re extremely popular with Human Resources> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <second of all> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <the beard is very, very, very popular, and that’s all I’ll say> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <even with the ladies?> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <ESPECIALLY with the ladies> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <oh> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <that’s quite an image> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <you started it> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <i suppose i did> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <i have a new partner, a young woman named Harper> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <just started about two weeks ago> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <had never been anywhere near a man with a beard before she started here> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <and she’s a fan?> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <BIG fan> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <my goodness> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <Abby> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <yes> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <are you in bed right now> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <yes> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <are you alone in the house> _
> 
> **Abby:** _ <yes> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <do you want me to call you> _

* * *

**TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO**

Abby woke before the sun, her body loose-limbed and drowsy after three days and nights of nonstop activity. Beside her, Jake snored happily, still sound asleep; they’d ridden him quite hard last night, and he’d never had a man inside him before, so he’d had the most intense workout of the three of them and crashed out like a log only a few minutes after everyone came. She’d dozed off in his arms shortly after, and Marcus - after tending gently to the process of cleanup and aftercare - had climbed in beside her.

She felt him stirring, and rolled over to find him wide awake.

“Good morning,” she whispered, and in the dark Marcus smiled.

“It’s four a.m.,” he pointed out. “It’s still basically night.”

“Yes, but you can’t say ‘goodnight’ to someone as a hello. Only as a goodbye. English is weird.”

“You could say ‘good evening.’”

“Yes, but 4 a.m. isn’t evening, and no one says ‘good evening’ except for vampires.”

“Well, that’s a fair point.”

Abby grinned at him, and shifted her weight to curl up closer, letting her naked body press shamelessly against his own. She could feel the sharp little hiss of his inhale, and knew without even reaching out to feel it that his cock was growing hard.

“I like this,” she murmured. “I had no idea I would like it this much.”

“Which part?”

“Well, all of it,” she said, “but especially the part where there’s a second man in my bed, in case I wake up in the middle of the night and I want something but my husband is asleep.”

Marcus turned his head to look at her. “Why don’t you ask me for what you want,” he said quietly. “In as much detail as possible. So I can hear you say it. Because I like to hear you say it. And then I’ll give it to you.”

Abby shifted her weight so her chest was pressed against his, and she could look down into his face and meet those dark eyes directly. “I want your mouth,” she whispered. “I want you to lay me down on my back and spread my legs and drape my knees over your shoulders so I’m open to you all the way. And then I want you to go slow, and torture me with your tongue, until I’m begging with my whole body, and pulling your hair. And then once I’m right on the edge, I want you to suck on my clit until I come in your mouth. And then I want you to do it again, and again, and again.”

“I like that about you,” Marcus whispered, reaching up to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I like that you’re not afraid to demand what you want.”

“You make it so easy,” she said softly. “You make me feel like anything I could want - anything I could ever ask for - would be safe to say out loud. Without any shame. You make it feel so safe to _want_ things, Marcus. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

The words landed on his skin, in his ears, inside his heart, like an embrace. Ten minutes later, with her legs draped over his shoulders and his fingers holding her open and his hard, urgent tongue spurring her on to her third orgasm as she gasped and shook beneath him, the words echoed over and over in his mind.

_I’ve never met anyone like you._

_I’ve never met anyone like you._

_I’ve never met anyone like you._

He knew he was ordinary. He knew he was not anything special. His father had been telling him so for years. But when Abby Griffin said it, it almost, almost felt like it might possibly be true.

* * *

**FOUR YEARS AGO**

“You’re late.”

Marcus’ voice was drowsy as he answered the phone.

“Are you in _bed?”_ she asked. “It’s like seven o’clock there.”

“I had a long day.”

“This feels weird. It always throws me off when I’m the one with the active social life, and you’re the one in his pajamas right after dinner, like a grandpa.”

“There’s no late show tonight. Active social life, huh?” She could hear his ears perking up, and laughed.

“It’s absolutely nothing to get excited about,” she said. “Clarke set me up with a friend’s dad. We went out for dinner. It was fine.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I hope not,” she said, putting the phone on speaker as she went into the bathroom to wash off her makeup. “Because if I have to see him again, that means that he didn’t get the memo that there was absolutely zero chemistry, and then _I’m_ going to have to tell him, but because it’s someone Clarke knows I’m going to feel guilted into saying yes if he asks again. I’m praying he just figured it out on his own and we can both quietly ghost each other without having to have an awkward conversation about it.”

“It was sweet of her to try.”

“I know, that’s why I didn’t want to shoot it down right away. It feels like it’s her way of telling me she’s okay with me moving on, and that feels important. She just, you know. Has very poor taste in fifty-year-old men.”

“Well, she’s eighteen, so in a way mightn’t it be _more_ concerning if she had _great_ taste in fifty-year-old men?”

“Fair point.”

“I hear water running.”

“Yes.”

“You’re washing your face.”

“Yes.”

“You’re about to put on your pajamas and get into bed, and it’s only ten pm where you are.”

“So?”

“So I just want to point out that you, also, are in bed early on a Friday night, and you should retract your mockery of me.”

 _“Ten_ pm is not _seven_ pm,” she pointed out, laughing. “And I’m the one with the job where I frequently have to be awake at five, meanwhile you’re usually still working at midnight.”

“I do like that about us. The overlapping weird hours. This would be a lot harder if either of us had a nine to five.”

“That’s true. We’d die of boredom. Oh hang on, Clarke just texted.”

“What did she say?”

“She says, ‘Sorry the date was a bust.’ Oh, thank God.”

Marcus laughed. “This is why I like you. You have absolutely no vanity. Most women would be insulted, and you’re just relieved. You’re the most practical person I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you, I think,” said Abby wryly, regarding herself in the mirror and thinking he was not far off base. Clean, bare face, hair pulled up with a scrunchie in a messy knot for bed, plain gray cotton camisole and panties. Very little here to be vain about.

“I meant it as a compliment, I promise. I’m sorry you had a tedious night but I’m very glad you don’t have to have another one.”

“Me too,” Abby agreed fervently as she switched off the bathroom light, tossed her clothes into the hamper next to the closet, and climbed into bed. “So, what about you?”

“Did I have a tedious night?”

“No, I meant . . . you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I meant, has there _been_ anyone. You know. Lately.”

“Fourteen times this week. Including three times today. Why do you think I’m in bed at seven on a Friday?”

Abby laughed. “I know _that,”_ she said. “I meant, do you ever _date.”_

“Oh.”

“We always wondered how that part of it worked. Whether you’d ever settle down with someone. Find a partner, or get married. Or whether the constraints of the job made that too complicated.”

Marcus sighed. “You’re not wrong that it’s complicated,” he agreed. “Though, I don’t know. Other people have certainly managed it. The kids seem better at it than I’ve ever been. Octavia has a boyfriend now. Local guy, a landscape architect. He’s really good, actually, he did our new gardens. I have him kind of on retainer now.”

“Is that because he’s really good at his job, or because you want to keep an eye on him?”

Marcus laughed. “You remember which one Octavia is, right? She does not need _any_ protection from me.”

“Yes, but I can’t imagine that stops you from feeling the parental need to hover and check up on the people your kids are dating.”

“I’m not sure ‘parental’ is exactly the right word,” he pointed out with some amusement. “I have sex with most of these people, remember. Not Octavia, but almost everybody else.”

“So do any of your other not-children have partners you’ve hired so you can vet them?”

He laughed. “Fine,” he conceded. “Busted. Harper was dating a local accountant -”

“And?”

“ . . . and he is now our accountant.”

“You are absolutely _transparent.”_

“What? They’re good at their jobs! I needed a landscape architect! And I also needed an accountant!”

“And you wanted to make sure that your girls were dating nice young men who wouldn’t be jealous or judgmental or have unhealthy boundaries about what they do for a living,” she said approvingly. “Which makes you a very strange combination of Boss Who Is Too Invested In His Employees’ Personal Life, and Dad With Hiring and Firing Capabilities, which sounds like it should add up to disaster. But instead it’s actually very endearing . . . in an odd, kinky, not-quite-parental parental way.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“So the kids date,” she prompted him, returning to her original question, “but you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Lack of opportunity, or lack of inclination?”

Marcus sighed. “Most recently,” he said, “bad timing.”

His tone got Abby’s attention immediately. “All right, spill,” she said firmly. “There is _clearly_ a story here.”

Marcus hesitated. “Are you sure?” he finally asked. “It wouldn’t . . . make you uncomfortable?”

“I just told you all about my bad date.”

“Yes, because it _was_ a bad date,” he pointed out. “Would you have felt differently telling me about it if it was a good one?”

She considered this question seriously, before finally answering, “No. I honestly don’t think I would. I mean, I watched you fuck my husband. And I watched him fuck you. This might be a very strange friendship we have, but it’s certainly evolved well beyond jealousy.”

“That’s a fair point.”

“So tell me.”

“There’s very little to tell,” he confessed. “In fact, now that you’re so interested, I’m worried I oversold the whole thing.”

_“Marcus.”_

He hesitated slightly. “I met a guy in a bar,” he finally said. “It didn’t work out.”

“What happened?”

“Indra hired him.”

“Oh,” said Abby. This, she understood. Marcus was a man of many rules, and he adhered to them with near-monastic fervor. It was a requirement of the job, he’d explained to her many times; when your work involved sex, boundaries were absolutely vital. Personal relationships with his subordinates were a hard red line, and he had never, ever crossed it.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s for the best,” said Marcus firmly, though she wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to convince. “He told me that he doesn’t experience romantic attraction, so he saved me the awkwardness of expressing feelings that wouldn’t be reciprocated anyway.”

“That doesn’t sound for the best,” said Abby, in a gentle voice. “That sounds incredibly painful.”

“It’s in the past,” said Marcus, a little too lightly. “Now we’re friends.”

“How long ago was this?”

He hesitated, then sighed again. “Okay, fine,” he conceded, voice edged in weariness. “It’s not in the past.”

“Marcus -”

“A month ago. And I really am trying.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bellamy Blake.”

“What does he look like?”

“Tall. About my height. Curly dark hair. Lots of freckles. Soccer player body; fit but not creepy-fit, you know? But strong, and big, and powerful. Dark eyes. Beautiful mouth. Beautiful cock.”

“Ah, so he’s one of your . . . performing partners?” she asked delicately.

Marcus laughed. “You mean, do I fuck him.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“And how is that?”

“He’s very good.”

“Marcus.”

“It’s . . . I don’t know. It’s complicated, Abby. I enjoy it, he enjoys it, we’re great together, we’ve become quite popular with audiences actually, but it’s . . . I mean it’s all just choreography. That’s the nature of the job. So it doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

“To _him,”_ she clarified gently.

“Or to me,” Marcus corrected her, a tiny bit of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “I’m a professional, Abby.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“I’m not _sublimating_ anything.”

“Aren’t you? You’re having sex, what, two, three times a week -”

“Six,” he muttered.

“Oh,” murmured Abby, in some surprise. “So you’re _very_ popular with audiences.”

“Abby -”

 _“Six_ times a week with a man you just said you came very close to confessing romantic feelings for, until he shut it down. And it’s only been a month? And you’re telling me your heart isn’t in this at all?”

“My heart _can’t_ be in it,” he said tightly. “There are _rules._ I couldn’t do this job if I wasn’t aware, at every moment, in every interaction, where every single one of the lines are. I know how to stay on the right side of them so I don’t do anything that might accidentally hurt Bellamy.”

“I’m not worried about you crossing a line that hurts _Bellamy,”_ she said. “I’m worried about you hurting _yourself._ Honey, if you’re having that much choreographed, empty work sex with someone you have genuine feelings for, I don’t think it’s going to help you get over this. I’m really afraid this is all just a recipe for falling even harder.”

The silence that followed this made it clear that that thought had never occurred to him.

“Even if I was,” he finally said, “it wouldn’t matter. He doesn’t want that from me. So I can’t.”

“Marcus -”

“I’m fine,” he said again, but with less conviction this time, and Abby sighed, but didn’t press him.

“Did you perform with him today?” she asked, unable to keep the low hum of desire out of her voice, and she heard Marcus chuckle, followed by a rustling fabric sound. He was doing the same thing she was now doing - getting comfortable, settling back against the pillows, preparing for a story.

This new part of their relationship had evolved quietly over the last year or so, and they had never had a conversation about it, or even really acknowledged the shift, because it felt too delicate and fragile still to shine too bright a light on it. But they’d begun, rather gradually, on nights when they knew they would both be going to bed alone, to allow the erotic back into the room with them, in a way they hadn’t quite permitted themselves when they were alone in a hotel room together two years ago.

The stories varied. It had begun the night Abby was playfully teasing Marcus about whether the girls at the Paradise liked his beard, and he’d interrupted their text chat to call her, and describe in a low voice, with painstaking detail, exactly how hard he had made Harper come that afternoon when he went down on her. Sometimes, if he’d had a particularly enjoyable client, he told her all about it, reveling in her shocked arousal when he introduced her to some new concept she’d never considered before - from explaining how a cock ring worked, to the complex taxonomy of spanking.

But it wasn’t only Marcus who did the talking. He was just as intrigued and aroused by listening to her talk about Jake. He wanted to know what their first time had been like, and how the passage of the years had deepened that intimacy which had moved him so deeply, and whether her memories of the week they spent together were different in any particulars from his own.

They liked listening to each other talk, and they’d always been turned on by each other’s voices, but it was also a kind of closeness - a shared vulnerability - that both of them found thrilling and new and almost addictive. To trust your most private moments with someone else, like this . . . to share them as a gift for someone else’s pleasure . . . Well, it was hardly a surprise that they slowly began to carve out more and more nights every week for these bedtime conversations.

And if their goodbyes at the end were sometimes a trifle rushed - both of them impatient to hang up the phone and be alone again, to give themselves the release their bodies were urgently craving - neither of them spoke of it. It felt too much like crossing a line.

It wasn’t _really_ phone sex, after all, if you were simply . . . telling each other stories, and then enjoying them in private later. Right? This wasn’t a relationship. They were still just friends.

Friends who found each other’s voices both comforting and sexy. Friends who liked listening to each other talk about their past erotic adventures. A peculiar friendship, certainly, but that was all this was. All this was ever going to be.

But something felt different tonight.

Maybe, on Abby’s side, it was the ache of a bad date, which she had actually felt a little bit hopeful about, before finding herself disappointed by a total lack of spark. Maybe, on Marcus’ side, it was the dangerous, seductive pleasure of talking about Bellamy, indulging himself in thoughts he knew were reckless, saying things out loud he knew he wasn’t even supposed to be thinking.

Either way, something had changed.

“I did perform with him today,” Marcus said. “We were in the Blue Room tonight. Have I told you about the Blue Room?”

“I know there’s the big theatre where the larger performances are. And the Red Room is the one you said was like a Gothic bedroom.”

“For voyeur performances,” he said. “The Black Room is really just an ordinary theatre, and it’s the cheapest. The Red Room is an order of magnitude more expensive than the Black Room, because while the theatre can fit about a hundred and fifty people, the Red Room only holds about thirty. And the Blue Room only holds twelve.”

“Ah,” said Abby. “So this one must be even more expensive.”

“And reserved for members only,” said Marcus. “You can’t get into the Blue Room unless you’ve done the background check and medical screening.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “in the Blue Room, the audience is encouraged to . . . participate more actively.”

A flush swept over Abby’s face. “Oh,” she whispered, and felt a shiver run through her whole body.

“Abby,” he murmured, “is Clarke home tonight?”

“No, she’s at a sleepover.”

“Good,” he said. “Put me on speaker, on the pillow next to you. So that you have both of your hands free.”

Abby felt her whole body go hot and cold, and her fingers trembled as she pressed the speaker button, setting the phone down beside her head so his low, rumbling voice echoed straight into her ears.

“There’s a sunken platform in the center of the room,” he said, “covered in cushions and pillows, and with a low sofa wrapping all the way around it. Bellamy and I are in the middle, and the guests sit around us. They’re not allowed to touch us, but they can touch themselves. And each other.”

“Oh God,” Abby whispered.

“Are you touching yourself now, Abby?” he asked quietly. “I want you to. Very much.”

“Marcus . . .”

“I remember how you liked it. I remember watching you do it to yourself. Start slow, and gentle, and just trace little circles around your clit with your fingertip. The way you always did to make yourself ready, before Jake or I fucked you.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember everything,” he murmured.

“Tell me more,” she begged him. “Tell me more about you and Bellamy.”

“There were two couples in the audience today,” said Marcus. “Two women, who brought a double-sided dildo with them -”

“Oh, God . . .”

“And a man with a woman sitting on his lap, riding his cock while they watched us. A few of the others brought their own toys, but there were also several men who just stroked their cocks. I always like watching men stroke their cocks.”

“I know,” Abby murmured, thinking back to those nights so many years ago when Marcus had taken such obvious pleasure in watching Jake touch himself.

“The scenes in the Blue Room don’t really have a story, not in the same way they do in the other rooms,” he said. “We just enter in the dark, naked, and when the lights come up on us, we begin. Have you ever performed on a stage? You can feel the warmth of the light on your skin. Under heavy costumes it might be unpleasant, but against bare skin, it just makes you feel all soft, and loose, and hot. When we perform in the Blue Room, we don’t warm up beforehand - we don’t come out hard already, I mean. We let them watch us.”

“How does it begin?”

“It begins with Bellamy on his back,” murmured Marcus. “Are you still touching yourself?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

“Bellamy lies on his back, and I kneel between his thighs, and stroke his cock very slowly, until it’s beginning to go from soft to hard. The audience is close enough to really watch, so the details matter. You can’t just jerk up and down.”

“No, of course not,” Abby agreed drowsily, “you’re an artist.”

“Exactly. So I spend a lot of time on the most sensitive areas - Bellamy likes it when you run a finger up and down the vein on the underside of his cock, and he likes to have the underside of the ridge teased very lightly.”

“Do it,” whispered Abby. “Touch yourself while you talk to me, Marcus. Touch yourself like you did to him.”

“Oh fuck, Abby,” he groaned, audibly startled by this suggestion.

“I want to hear it. I want to hear you.”

There was silence on the other end for a long time, so long she thought she’d lost him, before she finally heard a low, soft, rushing sound - the friction of skin on skin.

“Keep going,” she murmured. “Keep talking. Keep touching yourself. Tell me about Bellamy.”

“I warm him up with my hands until he’s hard enough for me to hold in my mouth,” said Marcus, his breathing more ragged and labored than it had been before. “He’s big, Abby. Not everyone can take him all the way. Most of the girls can’t. You could; you had all those years of practice on Jake. I can too. He likes it. I’ve watched him with other partners, but this, I know he likes it best with me.”

“I bet he does,” she whispered. “I know how good you are at it. I watched you so many times.”

“Sound is really important in the Blue Room, too,” Marcus went on, “because they’re all close enough to hear everything. So I keep him very, very wet, and I suck him and lick him until he’s hard all the way.”

“And then does he do the same to you?”

“Not yet. After he’s hard, he turns over, and gets on his knees, and that’s when I let him suck me. I kneel in front of him, and I usually pull his hair a little, to guide him - we’re both bare for this part, so I can feel his lips, his tongue. He doesn’t always do it the exact same way each time. Some people do. When I was with Thelonious, when we were both young, everything was scripted down to the last touch. But Bellamy likes to play. He sucks me like he just . . . _wants_ to. Like it makes him feel good too. He stays there until I let go of his hair, until I’m hard enough that it hurts. And then I put my hand between his shoulderblades, and I push him down. The audience always loves that part. Head down on a pillow, ass up in the air, where everyone can get a good look at it.”

_“Fuck.”_

“And then I come around behind him, and for a long, long time, all I do is just touch him. Work him open. He likes it best when I use my hands first, it makes him all soft and trembling and submissive. I let the audience watch as I make him all wet and slippery and then I slip my fingers inside, and I know just where to touch him to make him _lose his fucking mind,_ Abby, I mean I know it’s a performance but I also know what’s real, and that part of it is real. You can’t fake the way his whole body jolts when I touch his prostate, like he’s been struck by lighting. I can make him feel so good.”

“I wish I could see it,” she whispered. “I want to see you together.”

“Are you still rubbing your clit, Abby?”

“Yes.”

“Put your fingers inside you. Or, do you have a vibrator?”

“I do, I have a - it’s in the bedside table -”

“Get it,” he commanded, in that low, rough voice that had made her so desperately wet when he’d used it on her in bed all those years ago, and she shuddered all over, and did as she was told.

“I have it.”

“Don’t turn it on yet,”he murmured. “But fuck yourself. Slowly and gently. It’s not time to come yet. I’ll tell you when it’s time to come.”

“Oh God, Marcus . . .”

“In the Blue Room, the way we fuck is with Bellamy on all fours, and me kneeling behind him,” Marcus went on in a low, choked voice, and Abby could tell from the sound of his breathing that he was still touching himself. “That way everyone can see everything. He’s strong, the muscles in his arms are like art, so sometimes he holds his whole body up on just one arm and jerks his own cock with the other hand.”

“Does he come yet?”

“Not until the end.”

“You keep him hard that whole time? Poor baby.”

“He likes it. That part was his idea.”

“Oh, God . . .”

“I start slow, but I don’t stay that way. The audience for the Blue Room shows, they want to get their money’s worth. There’s more of a script in the Red Room, we undress each other, we have some dialogue, we’re playing a character in a story and the bedroom is the set. In the Blue Room, they want real fucking, and they want it hard. They want to hear the sound of the slap of my skin against his as I fuck him.”

“Oh, God, Marcus, I’m -”

“No, Abby,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not time to come yet.”

“I’m so wet, Marcus, fuck, I’m so -”

“Bellamy’s cock is bare during the scene. When I feel him getting close, I pull him up so we’re both kneeling, so I can reach around and grab his cock, and then I finish him off. I make him come and come and come, until he’s shaking. Then I pull out of him, and he takes the condom off my cock, and I push him back onto his hands and knees, and I finish myself off. I come all over his ass, his back, the back of his thighs, everywhere.”

“Oh fuck, Marcus . . .”

“Now you can turn the vibrator on, Abby,” he murmured. “I’m so close. I want to come with you. I haven’t come with you in eighteen years.”

Those were the last words either of them said for a long time.

If she closed her eyes, she could see him. She could feel him. She could almost imagine that the thick weight stretching her open and the sound of his raw, aching groans in her ear were connected, that he was there in the bed beside her instead of three thousand miles away.

“Abby,” he whispered, as he came. “Abby. Abby.”

“Marcus,” she cried in a low voice as she followed him over the edge.

For a long, long time, they both just lay still, catching their breath, feeling too many things to put names to them all.

Finally, Abby broke the silence. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For making me feel . . . like that piece of me isn’t dead.”

“It isn’t,” he said softly. “That would never be what Jake wanted for you.”

“I really did start out hopeful about the date,” she said. “I wanted it to work. I wanted it to be possible to find it again, with someone.”

“You will,” he said. “And until you do, I’m here.”

“When you’re with Bellamy,” she ventured hesitantly, “is the reason you always do it the same way, from behind him - is it really for the audience? Or is it because you’re afraid of what he would see if he saw your face?”

Marcus was silent. “I’d forgotten,” he finally said in a low voice, “what it felt like to be with you. That you see everything. Even the things people don’t realize they’re showing you. It’s what makes you so special. It’s also what makes you dangerous.”

“Marcus -”

“Goodnight, Abby,” he said. “It’s late there. Get some sleep.”

“Are you going to bed?”

“I’m going to read for a little while.”

“Will you stay on? Just until I’m asleep? So I can listen?”

“I’m not going to read out loud,” said Marcus, amused.

“I just want to listen to you turn the pages. It’s relaxing.”

“Did you used to fall asleep while Jake was reading?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he said. “Turn out the light, and close your eyes. I’ll be here until you fall asleep.”

So she closed her eyes, and set her phone on Jake’s pillow, and pulled the comforter over her, and let her orgasm-drowsy body sink into the mattress, and she listened to the quiet sound of breathing and the occasional swish and flip of pages and she thought about how well she had slept that night in Las Vegas two years ago when he’d held her all night in his arms, his heartbeat low and warm against her skin.

She felt slumber overtake her, pulling her down into its warm, heavy depths, and when she heard Marcus whisper her name, she was too drowsy to move or respond.

“Abby,” he said quietly. “Are you asleep?” She tried to make a sound, but couldn’t. “You are,” he said. Then, after a long silence, in a voice so soft she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it, he murmured, “I miss you. I missed this. So much.”

Then he hung up the phone, and in the silence of her bedroom, she fell the rest of the way into sleep.


	10. Non Est Bonum Esse Hominem Solum (“It is not good for man to be alone”)

**THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO**

“And you _promise_ ,” said Marcus, parking the car in the lot behind the Shamrock and turning to shoot the girl beside him as paternally stern a look as he could manage, “that this is _not_ a surprise party.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Octavia assured him. “I’m just taking you out for dinner.”

“Because I told you I _do not want_ a surprise party.”

“And I heard you loud and clear, boss.”

“I just don’t want any fuss.”

“Zero fuss,” promised Octavia. “I rented out the whole place for an hour. Total peace and quiet. The _opposite_ of fuss. Maybe if you ask nicely, Charmaine will stick a candle in your burger. But that’s it.”

Marcus looked from the Shamrock to Octavia and back again. The place did seem quieter than usual, which was reassuring. “If you’re lying to me right now -”

She flopped her head back against the headrest with a dramatic eyeroll before unbuckling her seatbelt and getting out of the car. “Marcus,” she sighed. “Have I ever, in all the time you’ve known me, just looked you in the eye and lied directly to your face?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed irritably, following her out. “Hundreds of times! Almost constantly! ‘Octavia, who used up the last of the creamer and put the empty carton back in the break room fridge?’ ‘Octavia, what happened to the good earbuds I use at the gym?’ ‘Octavia, there were two boxes missing from that delivery, who signed for it without checking?’”

Octavia waved off these irrelevancies. “Have I ever lied to you when it’s _important.”_

“All those things were important!”

“Man, you really need to learn how to let stuff go. This is why you’re uptight.”

“I’m not uptight.”

“This is why you can’t get a date.”

“This is not why I can’t get a date.”

“How are you going to convince that nice doctor from Vermont -”

Marcus screeched to a halt three steps from the front door. _“How,”_ he demanded, his icy tone causing the girl to pause and turn around to face him with a vaguely guilty expression, “do you know _anything_ about any . . . . alleged doctor from Vermont?”

_“Listen,”_ the girl explained defensively. "If _occasionally_ you leave your phone sitting on your desk, unlocked, while you get up to use the bathroom -”

“Octavia.”

“And if _occasionally_ a text pops up, and I just _happen_ to catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye -”

_“Octavia.”_

“. . . and if I just _happen_ to mention it to Harper, and then Callie just _happens_ to call from Salt Lake to say hi, and Harper _happens_ to ask her about it, and Callie just _happens_ to remember that like twenty years ago you went completely stupid over a pair of newlyweds and the last name ‘Griffin’ sounded familiar . . . ” She shrugged casually. “I mean in those circumstances it’s _basically_ public information.”

“My only regret right now,” said Marcus, folding his arms and glowering darkly at her, “is that, of the three of you, I can only fire two.”

“Will it make you less of a curmudgeon if I tell you that, because I didn’t get you a birthday gift, Mr. ‘I Don’t Want Any Fuss,’ that your gift can be that for the rest of the night I will not say another word about the doctor from Vermont?”

“Fine,” said Marcus, somewhat mollified by this, as he grudgingly permitted Octavia to take him by the hand and drag him the rest of the way before pushing open the bar’s glass door.

_“SURPRISE!!!!!!!!”_ shouted what appeared, at first glance, as the lights all came on at once and blinded him, to be about seven hundred people.

Marcus whirled around to shoot Octavia a treasonous glare. “Oh, I’m full of shit,” she said cheerfully. “Also, I lost your earbuds.”

“I’m going,” he said under his breath, “to _kill_ you.”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” she said. “I wasn’t the mastermind. I was just the decoy.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, as Charmaine emerged from behind the bar, which now bore an enormous “HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY, MARCUS!!!” banner draped over the mirror.

“Nice work, Octavia,” said Charmaine, elbowing her way through the scrum to shove a drink into his hand. “And cheers to you, my friend.”

“Ah,” he said, turning to her accusingly. “So this was all _your_ doing.”

Charmaine laughed. “I’m just the host,” she said. “I’m not in charge of anything except burgers and beer. Bellamy planned everything.”

Marcus looked at her sharply, something in his face and voice softening a little bit. _“Bellamy_ did all this?” he repeated, surprised. “I can’t believe it.”

“Oh, sure, _now_ he’s on board,” said Octavia, laughing. “I can’t believe that worked. I’m going to start blaming everything on Bellamy now. He’s actually the one who took your earbuds. And signed for those packages. And drank all the milk.”

“You’re still fired.”

“Fire me on Monday. Tonight there’s cake.”

Marcus looked down at her, a fraction of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”

“It’s an important birthday,” she said, patting him on the cheek as she departed to make her way over to join the others. “And a lot of people love you. Don’t be such a misanthrope.”

Marcus’ eyes followed her through the crowd as she stood up on her toes to give Lincoln a kiss, accept the beer he handed her, and join the rest of the crowd standing beside the table Charmaine had laden with food. Marcus could hear her recounting their drive (“I swear to God, he did _not_ believe me, I had to lie _so hard!”_ ) to howls of laughter.

His gaze drifted around the room, taking it in. Beside the food table, where everyone seemed to be congregated, was another, with an enormous cake on a glass stand, and a mountain of cheerfully wrapped presents. Nate and Monty were handing around beers, Niylah and Luna were playing with baby Hope, Raven had apparently challenged George from the motel to a game of darts, and Roan had departed to flirt with the Paradise spa’s two estheticians. 

And then he saw him.

In the back corner booth, Bellamy sat alone with a pint of amber ale. When their eyes met, he lifted it, and smiled.

* * * * *

After he’d made a loop of the room to receive hugs and handshakes and good wishes from the whole crowd, he’d tried to make his way over to Bellamy but was thwarted by Nate and Murphy, who’d folded him into the chaotic mob of young people crowded around the one long table Charmaine had set up in the center of the room. Every once in awhile, Marcus was forcibly reminded that there was something of a generational gap between him and the employees he felt closest to, and even at his own birthday party, it felt selfish to take away from their time together by forcing them to hang out with the boss. And, since Indra was busy chatting up the mayor, leaving few capital-A Adults in the room for Marcus to talk to, he took advantage of the fact that no one ever looks like they’re alone when they’re talking to a bartender. So he heaped a plate full of Charmaine’s bacon cheeseburger sliders, hand-cut fries and spicy kale salad, and claimed one of the stools closest to the door.

Charmaine saw him coming and slid another glass across the shining wood surface before he said a word. “Hendricks and tonic, with a slice of cucumber, on the house,” she said. “Just the way you like it. And I’ll keep them coming if you promise to pretend for one night like you don’t hate parties, and don’t yell at any of these nice kids. John baked that cake for you himself. And Harper and Raven were here for hours blowing up all these goddamn balloons.”

Marcus took the drink. “Is that really what all of you think of me?” he asked quietly. “That I’m such a grouch I would get mad at someone just for doing something kind?”

“No one thinks that,” said Charmaine. “What we do think is that you absolutely suck at taking compliments, accepting favors, or letting anyone treat you to anything at all.” She looked at him with exasperation and affection mingled in her gray-blue eyes. “On some level,” she said, “I think you think everyone putting in all this effort, just to celebrate _you,_ was wasting their time.”

“That’s a little harsh,” he said, but couldn’t quite look at her, busying himself with his food instead.

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

Charmaine gave a quiet, wry laugh. “A lot of people love you, Marcus Kane,” she said. “Just for one night, let them love you without pushing it away.”

He took a long drink of his gin and tonic. “They’re going to sing to me, aren’t they.”

“Oh, absolutely. And there’s going to be toasts.”

“Charmaine -”

“And you’re going to sit there, despite your total misery about being the center of attention when you aren’t playing a character, and you’re going to let all these people make speeches about how great you are, and you’re just going to accept it, because it’s your goddamn fortieth birthday and you never let your friends do _anything_ that’s just for you.”

Marcus’ eyes drifted, while she spoke, to the crowd around the food table. Niylah had passed baby Hope over to Bellamy and Octavia, who were taking turns making faces at her. Charmaine’s gaze followed his, and she laughed.

“God, those two have been a kick today,” she said. “They bicker so much you’d think they were brother and sister.”

Marcus laughed at this. “It’s true,” he agreed. “From a certain angle, they even look alike.”

“They really are crazy about you,” said Charmaine. Marcus didn’t answer, but she watched his face soften as he watched them. “I also couldn’t help but notice,” she said mildly, “that you were ready to set Octavia on fire with your eyes when you thought she was the culprit, but as soon as you found out it was Bellamy you went all squishy.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did, and you’re lucky the only two people in the room who knew what that face meant were your therapist and your bartender.”

“Charmaine -”

“All your secrets are safe with me,” she said, “and they always have been. My point is that I don’t think time is making this any better.”

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly, taking a slightly too large bite of his burger to buy himself some silence in the hopes that she would drop it.

Which she did, eventually, though not in the way he’d hoped.

“Best cure for a crush is to get a new one, anyway,” she said brightly. “What’s the story with this hot lady doctor?”

“I’m leaving,” said Marcus, taking his drink and his plate and departing for the corner where Indra was still arguing with the mayor about road construction.

Charmaine’s laugh followed him all the way across the room.

* * * * *

Roan gave the first toast, and the fact that he actually managed to pull off genuine sincerity made Marcus wonder whether Bellamy had demanded to hear everyone’s speeches first before signing off on them. It was uncharacteristically genuine, and reminded Marcus that underneath the exasperation he inspired, this was, in fact, someone he was truly fond of.

Roan was one of the Paradise’s longest running employees, bridging the divide between the older generation Marcus had come up with - like Indra, the only one who was still around - and the newer hires like Bellamy, Octavia and Harper. A broad-shouldered, flawlessly-muscled Greek god of a man, Roan was at once Eden’s most popular and most useless employee, since he had precisely one trick: solo work. He was gorgeous, but he was also infuriatingly aware of it, and his sexual orientation appeared to be primarily himself. “He can’t even really call himself a prostitute,” Octavia had complained once. “He’s just a glorified stripper who masturbates well.”

Which was savage, but hard to deny.

Still, women paid through the nose to watch Roan’s exactly one move, and paid even more for the chance to run their hands up and down his rippling pectoral muscles. He was highly in demand for bachelorette parties, a market Kane had resisted mightily until Roan informed him that it was a service for which they could charge $10,000 if they could cultivate an elite hotel partner on the Vegas strip, where high-priced wedding tourism was one of the city’s economic engines. Marcus had doubled with Roan sometimes, albeit reluctantly – he hated bachelorette parties – but even he had to admit that the one thing Roan did, he did very well. They all looked at Roan as a likeable annoyance, whose obsession with his own body and his own dick was usually more amusing than obnoxious, and made it possible for them to subsidize other things they liked more. He partnered with Octavia periodically in the Black Room for dungeon shows, because the same women who liked to watch him jerk off also like to watch him get tied up and flogged, and also because there were few people in the world upon whom Octavia more enjoyed inflicting pain. ("I find making him cry therapeutic," she liked to say.) Fortunately, there were fewer bachelorette parties in Marcus' life than there used to be; Bellamy’s arrival, and the palpable increase in chemistry between Marcus and his new partner over his old one, left Roan free to cater more directly to women clients, while the M/M performing slots he used to cover were taken over by Bellamy. A win for everyone.

Luna and Niylah were a couple, and they’d arrived about five years ago from San Francisco. They’d shown up on the doorstep and presented themselves as a package deal to Vera, who adored them both instantly. Luna had introduced herself quite calmly and serenely as a witch, and Marcus somehow felt the minute he met her that she looked exactly the way he had always believed a witch should look. She had wild burgundy hair, piercing eyes, and an absolutely overwhelming collection of healing crystals. But she was also the best masseuse they’d ever had, and offered a whole range of services - reiki, sound baths, energy healing - which the clientele of the Paradise frequently requested, but the part-time masseuse they’d been using for the past few years couldn’t offer. Hiring Luna full-time was a substantial investment, but it had paid off in spades. 

Niylah, her partner, had been a slightly more challenging sell. Her services as intimacy coordinator were invaluable in the rehearsal room, especially with new staff or while working on more vulnerable scenes; but this was not, as she explained to Marcus, the service she offered which she believed he was in need of the most.

She was a therapist, and had pitched the Kanes on the rather startling suggestion that the Paradise should offer relationship counseling.

Marcus had been dubious. “People don’t come to a brothel to fix their marriage,” he argued, but Niylah had stood her ground.

“I would imagine,” she pointed out, “that at least some of them come because their marriage _needs_ fixing.”

This was a perspective he hadn’t considered; and since he could not have Luna without Niylah, and since they would be sharing both living quarters and workspace, which saved on expenses, he had conceded.

And Niylah, of course, had been right. The two of them brought in more money from the locals than anybody else. And after his own therapist had retired, he realized how much easier it made his own life to have someone so versed in the very specific complexities of sex work located just a few steps from his door, so Niylah too was now indispensable.

Nathan Miller - the son of the now-retired county sheriff - was their newest hire, and the establishment’s only truly monosexual escort. Fortunately, he was a very good-tempered switch, which prevented him being too specialized for Marcus to afford to hire him. Miller and Bellamy clicked immediately, and their doubles sold very well. Miller was a guy’s guy, a football-and-action-movies guy, and the clients who arrived in rental cars wearing dark sunglasses and baseball caps pulled down low, petrified that someone might catch them cavorting with a male escort, found Miller’s energy refreshingly familiar. He made them feel safe. Baby steps. First we sit on this couch and drink a beer and talk about the playoffs, then I get on my knees and unzip your jeans with my teeth. It worked every time.

He had clicked immediately with Harper, and even with her rather introverted boyfriend Monty, a junior accountant who seemed rather wide-eyed and intimidated by some of the goings-on at the Paradise, but on the whole took it rather better than Marcus had expected, upon first being introduced to him. It helped that Harper had no shame or guilt, and possessed the rare ability to make potentially-uncomfortable situations comfortable for everyone else, through her own guileless, easy charm. Their late-night daddy kink shows had become as big a moneymaker as Callie had predicted they would when Harper started a year ago, but she’d also developed a very particular and incredibly useful niche with clients. Because she was so sweet and kind and nonthreatening, she’d turned out to do quite well with first-timers; whether a complete virgin, embarrassed even to take off their clothes in front of a stranger, or simply someone new to the world of paying for sex and unclear how to behave without making some kind of excruciating _faux pas._ Whenever a loud, rowdy crew on some Las Vegas party bus - a bachelor party, a gaggle of excitable European tourists - crashed in through the front doors together, Raven and Nate would take charge of the leaders of the pack, while Harper inevitably gravitated toward the quiet, shy one lingering in the back and staring down at their shoes. She was a gentle, encouraging lover, who smiled and laughed and eased them through it, and then afterwards took their hands and looked deep into their eyes and told them how much she had enjoyed herself. And while this cannot possibly have been true as many times as she said it, the point was that each scared, nervous, timid patron believed her, and left the Paradise a slightly different person than they’d been when they arrived. Walking a little taller, a little more rooted in their own body, a little bit proud of themselves, and a little more ready to try again with someone new. She could teach without a pupil realizing they were being taught. This was Harper’s gift, and Marcus cherished it.

Marcus was working very hard to get to know both Monty and Lincoln, so it wouldn’t seem to their respective girlfriends that Marcus had only given them jobs to keep them under his nose to make sure Harper and Octavia were being treated well. So far, they’d given him no cause for complaint. Monty was a terrific addition to the administrative staff, and Indra was crazy about him; she’d been rather desperate for bookkeeping and payroll support as the staff expanded, and Monty’s quiet competence made the two of them a good fit. Lincoln was even more of an introvert than Monty, and at first glance an odd match for someone as fiery as Octavia; but it was impossible to deny how much happier, more grounded, she was since she’d met him, or how full it made his heart to realize she’d finally, finally, all these years after Daniel, found a man she felt safe enough with to allow him to touch her. Lincoln had also endeared himself to Marcus with his open admiration for Vera Kane’s lush gardens of desert topiaries, exotic plants, and swaying palms; every time he complimented the unexpected choice of this flowering plant next to that one, or the intuitive arrangement of a ground cover plant which needed shade to add a flash of color at the base of a row of shrubberies which would grow high and tall, Marcus felt a tiny spark inside his chest that was somehow both joy and grief. It would never not break his heart that Vera and Lincoln didn’t get the chance to meet; they would have liked each other so much. But it was something, he felt, to be able to trust the land itself - the plants, the soil, this tiny heaven she’d carved with her own hands out of nothing but desert - to someone who already understood her so well.

John Murphy, the hotel’s sarcastic, easygoing chef, had arrived in response to a job posting, grated on everyone’s nerves immediately, and almost lost the job by putting his feet up on Indra’s desk. She was ready to send him packing without even a callback until she tasted his roasted cauliflower bisque. “He’s going to annoy every single one of us into an early grave,” she’d told Marcus, “but we can’t say no to this. He’s too good.” Over the two years since he’d been hired, Marcus had come to realize that Murphy was actually a great deal smarter than Indra had, at first, given him credit for, with an unerringly precise radar for just exactly how far he could push someone up to the line without going over it. Indra, who was largely unflappable, had required more pushing; but he fucked much less with Octavia, who scared the shit of him. And he was, by any measure, the best chef they’d ever had; tonight’s cake was a deep, spiced espresso chocolate with salted caramel buttercream, and it was so decadent that one bite made Marcus want to cry. So they tolerated Murphy’s nonstop, round-the-clock sarcasm, both because the kid could really fucking cook, and because, privately, Marcus knew he was a person with a tendency to take life a little bit too seriously, and to gravitate toward others who did the same (Octavia, Indra, Bellamy), which meant Murphy was good for all of them.

Raven got up to give the next toast, flashing her flirtatious dark eyes at Marcus and throwing in the word “DILF” a few more times than he would have preferred, which made him blush and everyone else roar with laughter. Raven was one of many employees over the years who had arrived at the Paradise to do a completely different job, and simply . . . stayed. Marcus met her at the run-down auto mechanic shop at the other end of Main Street, where he’d brought his car because it was, quote, “making a funny noise,” and the more conveniently-located repair shop closed early on Sundays. Raven had diagnosed and fixed the problem in about five seconds flat, energetically gesturing at all kinds of things under the hood of his car that Marcus did not even know the names for, and forgot every single thing she said the minute she’d said it, and knew if anyone ever asked him later what had actually been wrong with his car, he would never be able to repeat it accurately. But there was something about her passion he couldn't resist. After that, Raven was his go-to mechanic, and then when the auto shop closed - Eden still being a small enough town that it really only had enough business for one - she was his on-site all-purpose handywoman, tackling everything from busted light fixtures to malfunctioning HVAC systems to sticky window latches with the same breezy, cheerful energy she brought to her first and truest love, cars. 

Raven had begun as a contractor, but somehow she was always underfoot anyway, hanging out with the rest of the staff in the lounge or appearing at mealtimes even when there was nothing for her to do. She’d become fast friends with Octavia and flirted outrageously with Bellamy, and once Charmaine pointed out to him that “hot girl mechanic in denim short shorts who likes beer and football and looks like she was ripped straight out of a Whitesnake video” was a niche he didn’t have filled yet, he finally consented - after her tenth or twelfth or twentieth plea - to give her an audition.

He started her off easy, a double in the Blue Room with Bellamy, who she already liked anyway, and who’d proven in the past to be good with new people. When Monty closed the books the next day, he informed Marcus that the _lowest_ tip they’d gotten from that audience was 400% the price of the ticket, and frankly, it was impossible to argue with those kinds of results.

It was an odd, unusual little family he’d gathered here around him. It had begun with Octavia, and it hadn’t really felt _right_ until Bellamy; but now, as he sat in his chair and listened to one after the other of them stand up at the front of the room and lift a glass of champagne and tell the stories of how they’d come to the Paradise - how Marcus Kane had taken a chance on them when no one else would, how he had seen something in them that they might not even have seen in themselves, how they’d finally found the home they’d been searching for all their lives - he loved them all so much that he thought his heart would crack under the weight of it.

He was not sure how it was possible that he could ever have deserved this; but he was grateful for it all the same.

Octavia gave the second-to-last toast, and received roaring cheers from the crowd for being the one to finally make Marcus cry. But the final toast came from Bellamy.

He said little, but there were volumes contained inside it.

“To the first good man I’ve ever known,” he said simply, lifting his glass, and everyone agreed there could be no better note on which to end.

* * * * *

In addition to baking the cake, Murphy’s contribution to the party had been an enormous Zip-Loc bag full of quarters, which he left on top of the jukebox for anyone to wreak whatever chaos they liked. At present, all was well, as they were in the middle of a long stretch of Madonna hits selected by Harper, a choice which was fine by everybody. Unfortunately, this had been preceded by Murphy loudly proclaiming “This next set goes out to all the lovers!” and then playing “Monster Mash” over and over, forcing Charmaine to stomp over after the seventh repeat to unplug the entire machine and ban Murphy from touching it for the rest of the night.

The crowd had dwindled down to the last handful of stalwarts, mostly the kids who didn’t have to work tomorrow. Luna and Niylah had taken Hope upstairs to Charmaine’s apartment to put her to bed so her mom could clean up and close out; Roan had left to meet a client, and Indra returned to the Paradise to spell off the part-time night receptionist, who they’d left in charge of the whole building while everyone was out. This afforded Marcus his first real opportunity - while the last shit-faced party stragglers had an eighties dance party over on the other side of the pool tables near the jukebox - to find a moment alone with Bellamy.

Unwilling to bother Charmaine while she was elbow-deep in catering trays in the kitchen, Marcus took advantage of what he planned to justify later, if needed, as “birthday privilege,” to step behind the bar himself and prepare himself a fresh gin and tonic. On impulse, looking over and seeing that Bellamy had returned to the back corner booth, and watching his friends dance with a wry, amused smile on his face, Marcus pulled a pint for him, and brought them both over to the table.

Bellamy looked up as Marcus approached, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Like old times,” he said, as the older man approached, which made Marcus flush slightly, and caused him to suddenly hesitate once he’d reached the table, uncertain whether to slide into the booth beside Bellamy - who had instantly moved over to make room - or to take the more cowardly route, and seat himself on the opposite bench.

He opted for safety and cowardice, in the end, which left Bellamy watching him with an expression which was, if not exactly hurt, at least a little bit wistful. “Right,” he amended, taking the beer. “Sorry. Not _quite_ like old times.” He lifted his glass and clinked it against Marcus’ own, then took a long drink. “Happy birthday,” he said.

“No one has ever thrown me a surprise party before,” said Marcus. “I can’t believe you did all of this, just for me.”

Bellamy looked at him. “It’s not _‘just,’”_ he said, a peculiar heat in his voice. “You say that like you’re nothing. Like you don’t understand why anyone would even want to _be_ here.”

“I suppose I didn’t mean it like that,” Marcus said uncomfortably, thinking about Charmaine’s words from before.

“You were willing to make an enemy of the most dangerous man in this whole town, to keep Harper and Octavia and those kids safe,” said Bellamy. “You went toe to toe with those homophobic assholes out there in that parking lot to protect Elias, and you didn’t even flinch. And you do those things like they’re instinct. Like they’re nothing. You’ll throw yourself on a landmine to save anybody else. But you always seem so surprised when anyone wants to do something for _you._ You heard all those things everybody said back there. How much you matter to everyone in this room. But it’s like you don’t even believe it. Like you’re convinced the things people say about you behind your back are different from what we say to your face. But they’re not. They’re _not,”_ he insisted, voice beginning to slur just a little, and Marcus noticed for the first time that the pint he’d set down in front of Bellamy was not the only glass on the table. “I meant it,” he said, in a low, intense voice. “That you’re the first good man I’ve ever known.”

“Bellamy,” said Marcus. “How many of those have you had?”

“I’m not drunk,” Bellamy insisted. “I’m just . . . trying to figure you out.”

“And what have you figured out?” Marcus asked softly, feeling in some unaccountable way that they were treading dangerous ground, but unwilling to pull back just yet.

Bellamy, however, didn’t answer. He looked over at the jukebox, where “Like a Prayer” had just faded out into a new track, and the drunk giggling kids over on the far side of the bar had paired off for either slow dancing, making out, or what appeared to be a heated game of pool.

He rose from the table and held out his hand to Marcus. “Springsteen,” he said. “You love this song.”

“Bellamy -”

“Come on. One dance. It’s your birthday.”

Hesitantly, Marcus took his hand and rose to his feet. “Are you leading,” he asked, “or what?”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s _one_ way we’ve never done it,” he said, which made Marcus laugh, and eased some of the tension.

“Why don’t I lead,” said Marcus, gently resting one hand on the small of Bellamy’s back and pulling him close.

“Why don’t you,” said Bellamy, letting his arm drape the older man’s shoulder and pressed the hand he was still holding against his heart, and then no one except Bruce Springsteen said anything for awhile.

_“I ain’t lookin’ for prayers or pity,  
_ _I ain’t comin’ round searching for a crutch,  
_ _I just want somethin’ to hold onto,  
_ _And a little of that human touch . . .”_

“Is it the doctor from Vermont?” Bellamy asked suddenly. “Is she why you’re sad?” Marcus pulled back just slightly to meet the younger man’s gaze, and raised an eyebrow at him. Bellamy had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Octavia talks a lot,” he confessed.

Marcus heaved a deep sigh from the very core of his being. “So _everybody_ knows,” he said wearily.

“It’s not just gossip for the sake of gossip,” Bellamy pointed out. “I mean it’s also because everybody cares about you. And wants you to be happy. And not to be lonely.” He looked at the older man directly, with empathy in his warm, dark eyes. “Is that the right word?” he said. “Lonely?”

Marcus paused, trying to find a way to show Bellamy the respect of complete honesty, without crossing a line he couldn’t cross here, or revealing more than he should.

“When you . . . meet a person,” he began carefully, “someone you think could be the person for you, that you could spend the rest of your life with, if only circumstances were different and allowed for that to be a possibility . . . It’s painful. And it takes time to work through. I can live with it, mostly. There are good days, when it all feels manageable. Lots of good days.”

“Was this a good day?”

Marcus smiled at him. “Parts of it, yes,” he said. “You made it a good day.”

“What parts weren’t?”

Marcus shrugged, and looked away. “The part where I woke up this morning, forty years old, and alone in my bed,” he admitted, “and it occurred to me that realistically, this will probably be the rest of my life.”

“You’re not alone,” said Bellamy firmly. “You have me. You’ll always have me.”

Marcus looked away. “You’re my colleague,” he said. “And my friend. And I value what we have. But it isn’t the same.”

Bellamy leaned in, drawing Marcus closer until his chin rested on the older man’s shoulder. “Did we make a mistake?” he asked quietly.

Marcus stopped moving.

_“So you been broken and you been hurt  
_ _Well, show me somebody who ain’t,  
_ _Yeah, I know I ain’t nobody’s bargain,  
_ _But hell, a little touch-up and a little paint_

_You might need somethin’ to hold onto  
_ _When all the answers, they don’t amount to much -  
_ _Somebody that you can just talk to,_  
 _And a little of that human touch . . .”_

It was impossible, once the thing had been said out loud, for him not to picture it immediately. To rewind back to the moment when Bellamy had made his choice, and imagine the alternate universe branching off from that moment in which he had made a different one. Somewhere, perhaps, in some unreachable alternate plane of existence, there was another Marcus Kane, who was dancing in a bar to what he had always privately thought of as the sexiest Bruce Springsteen song, holding a man in his arms who really belonged to him. Bellamy Blake, his boyfriend. His partner. His love. His husband, maybe. A Marcus Kane who had spent the evening of his birthday party doing dumb, silly little couple things, like picking all the roasted tomatoes out of Bellamy’s kale salad because Bellamy didn’t like tomatoes, and then giving Bellamy all the frosting roses off the top of his slice of cake. Sitting next to him during the toasts, holding his hand, laughing quietly at the private jokes Bellamy would whisper in his ear. They would all raise their glasses to say “Happy Birthday” to Marcus and then Bellamy would say it too and drop a light kiss on Marcus’ mouth as everybody cheered. And then, after they’d finished dancing, he would take Bellamy’s hand and say “I think it’s time to go home now” and Bellamy would look at him with a silent, pleading _yes,_ and then they would get back into one car and drive back to a place where they both lived, where there was only one bed, and Marcus would not wake up tomorrow morning feeling forty years old and alone; he would wake up with a warm, eager, hungry young body curled up against his own.

But there was still something missing, even from this idyllic fantasy, he realized. Because in that universe, while he was here at Charmaine’s bar giving his handsome young lover cake and kisses, Abby was still in Vermont. Abby, alone in the house after Clarke departed for college, going out on periodic unsatisfying dates, calling Marcus every day but too far away for him ever to touch her again. Still somehow both his, and not his.

Was that a future he wanted?

Or was there a different one?

Was there another universe, somewhere, in which Marcus Kane had entered this party with his arm around a beautiful petite brunette in sky-high fuck-me heels, her hair loose and curly around her shoulders because she knew how much he liked to touch it? She would be wearing some gorgeous dress, cut low to show off her incredible breasts and high to show off her dancer’s legs, and all the kids would gawk at her openly, in awe of her beauty. And he wouldn’t be wearing jeans and a t-shirt, like he was wearing now, Abby would have forced him to put on a suit so they would match, to make sure they looked good together, and when he asked why she would tell him “Because the kids threw you a surprise birthday party,” because she was totally incapable of lying to him, but then she would force him to promise he would fake it believably once they actually walked in the door, because a lot of people had put a lot of work into this and did not deserve to have their fun ruined. She would be good at pool, he thought, but pretend she wasn’t, and then take all the boys’ money. Murphy would like her for that. She would dance with Harper to Madonna and make faces at baby Hope and impress the mayor. Raven would be smitten. Roan would immediately want to know if she was available for doubles. She would walk into this room full of people who loved Marcus, and they would all be ready to love her too.

But this picture, too, was incomplete.

Because the Bellamy who had just asked Marcus whether or not they had made a mistake would still be here. Sitting all alone in that back corner booth, watching Marcus and Abby dance to Bruce Springsteen, and what he might be feeling or thinking about it was impossible for Marcus to know.

“You’ve been quiet for a long time,” Bellamy finally said, and Marcus realized he’d been standing there with Bellamy in his arms for so long that he’d missed the ending and beginning of another Springsteen song. They were already well into “Atlantic City,” and he hadn’t spoken or moved.

“I’m sorry,” said Marcus quietly, and he let his body begin to move again, holding Bellamy, still dancing. “I didn’t mean to disappear on you. It’s just that you asked me a question I can’t possibly think how to answer.”

Bellamy’s fingertips brushed the back of his neck lightly. “It’s your birthday,” he said, a faint hint of mischief in his voice. “And I didn’t get you a present, so I need something else to give you.”

Marcus closed his eyes. The light touch felt so good. “Don’t do that,” he murmured.

“We’re drunk. Everyone’s drunk. No one is looking. You’re _supposed_ to get drunk and do stupid things on your birthday. You’re supposed to break the rules.”

“Not this one.”

“Because of the lady doctor in Vermont?”

“Because I’m your _boss,”_ he reminded him. “I gave you a choice, I asked you what you wanted me to be to you, and you chose this.”

“But that’s not fair,” Bellamy protested, “because I didn’t know then.”

Marcus looked at him. “Know what?”

Bellamy was silent. “How hard it would be,” he finally said, as his hand slid up Marcus’ shoulder to cup his jaw, brushing the older man’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Marcus hated himself for how easily his lips parted at the touch, how violently it made his heart pound, how shallow his breathing suddenly became.

_“Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact,”_ sang Bruce Springsteen, like he was trying to tell Marcus something, _“But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.”_

He’d fucked Bellamy hundreds of times since that first night, but it was so much easier when it was just physical. Pure release, hot skin on skin, bending the younger man over the bed or pounding into him from behind on his hands and knees. They were good together; their chemistry was explosive. But it was difficult to keep it together, sometimes, when they were face to face, so Marcus tried to avoid it as much as he could.

It was hard to be neutral, when he was looking at Bellamy.

It was nigh-on impossible when Bellamy was looking back at him with the same dark, imploring eyes he remembered from that first night, in this same bar.

“I just want ten seconds,” said Bellamy. “Ten seconds where we can be different people. You’re my friend, and it’s your birthday, and we’re just two people drunk in a bar, and there’s no rule book to follow. Then we can go back to the way things are.”

“I think you’re underestimating the damage you can do in ten seconds,” said Marcus quietly.

“Is that a no?”

“No,” said Marcus, and then Bellamy kissed him.

It was not raw and hungry and urgent, like their kisses in the hotel room. It was gentle, and sweet, and almost chaste, just the warm press of a soft mouth against his own. As their bodies swayed, Marcus could feel, where their hands were clasped together against Bellamy’s chest, the hammer of the younger man’s heart.

It would be so easy, not to stop.

It would be so easy to cradle Bellamy’s face in his hands and sweep his mouth open with a hungry, urgent tongue, and lead him by the hand out the back door before anybody saw them, to disappear into one of the dozen vacant motel rooms and do all the things he’d wanted to do three months ago the very first night they met.

It would be so easy to claim Bellamy for his own, to pull him across the line, to tell him they _had_ made a mistake, that Bellamy should belong to _him,_ not to the Paradise, not to everyone else, but to Marcus Kane alone, to say they’d been idiots not to see the truth of what this was between them, they’d been idiots to let something this perfect go, but it wasn’t too late to fix it.

It would be so easy to let go of the guard rail and let himself fall, all the way, without stopping.

When Bellamy pulled away, Marcus felt something vast and heavy cracking open inside him, and he knew it was the sound of that imaginary universe folding in on itself like a black hole and disappearing forever. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he said to Bellamy.

Bellamy nodded, eyes dark with sorrow. “We shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

Then he let go of Marcus’ hand, and walked away.

* * * * *

He was late to staff breakfast the next morning.

This was unusual for Bellamy; he and Marcus were often the earliest risers, especially on days when there’d been no late show the evening before, and Marcus had grown fond of the peaceful intervals of twenty or thirty minutes where they were alone with their coffee, and sometimes their books, making quiet conversation while they waited for the others.

But that day, Bellamy did not arrive until after everyone else had already begun to dish up, and every seat around Marcus was taken, so he ended up - Marcus could not help wondering if this was by design - on the other side of the room, between Nate and Octavia.

“Okay,” Nate said, as Bellamy sat down. “How hung over are you?”

“He was barely coherent after the party last night,” said Octavia, laughing. “I bumped into him in the hall on the way to his room and he was drooping like a dead plant. Just mumbling. No real words.”

Bellamy did not look at Marcus, but when he answered, his voice was loud enough that everyone in the room could hear him. “It was a rough night,” he said to Octavia. “I honestly don’t remember anything that happened after the cake.”

Marcus was the only person in the room who didn’t laugh at this, busying himself with taking a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, so Harper and Monty across from him would not read anything on his face.

But it was Bellamy’s next remark which put the final nail in the coffin of that foolish, dangerous, ten-second kiss, and make it abundantly clear that Bellamy was already regretting it.

“So now that it’s all out in the open,” he said, to Octavia specifically but also to the room at large, “show of hands: who thinks Marcus should call the hot lady doctor and find an excuse to bring her out here?”

Marcus looked down at his coffee, struggling to control his face, which everyone else around him fortunately misinterpreted as mere bashfulness.

_Okay,_ he thought to himself. _Message received._

It was better for everyone this way, anyway. This changed nothing. The kiss had been a mistake. They would never speak of it again.

_This is fine, Marcus,_ he told himself sternly. _This is fine. You’re fine._

_It didn’t really mean anything, anyway._

* * * * *

“Hey, how was your birthday party?” Abby asked when he picked up the phone that night. “Do you know that half your staff has been texting me? Should I be worried that Octavia has my number?”

“It was . . .”

But he couldn’t answer.

“Hey,” she said gently, tone changing. “Marcus. Honey, are you okay?”

_I'm fine,_ he started to say, the words already rising effortlessly to his lips, pushing everything down again, swallowing his emotions before they overwhelmed him.

"No," he said, surprising himself even more than her. "No, I'm not."

"Okay," said Abby. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, Marcus. What do you need?"

"Can we," he began, pausing to breathe through the unexpected sting of tears rising to his eyes. "Can we just . . . leave the phones on, tonight? I don't want to go to bed alone."

"Of course."

"Will you just talk to me? For a little while? About anything. I don't care. I just need to hear your voice."

Marcus heard the rustle of sheets on the other end of the line, followed by a soft click, as though Abby was settling herself in bed and setting the phone down on the pillow beside her, and then turning off the bedside lamp. "I get lonely sometimes too, Marcus," she said. "It isn't anything to be ashamed of. Even on your birthday. I understand why it might feel like something you can't talk about with the rest of them. But it's always safe to say it to me."

"I'm really fucking lonely, Abby," he said.

"There," said Abby. "That's better. Now close your eyes, and I'm going to tell you an incredibly boring story about how end-of-year exams work in med school."

"Perfect," he said, as he sank down against his pillow, and let the sound of her voice wash over him, and sweep the shadows away.

He almost said it, out loud, as he felt drowsiness overtake his limbs and knew he was close to sleep. He thought about it so hard he could taste the words on his lips.

_Come back to Nevada._

_Come back to me._

_You could be here with me right now._

_I want to see your face again._

_I want to touch you again._

But he didn't.

He could not cross that line with Abby until he was sure what Abby wanted, and that was something he did not know yet. He could not invite her for a visit simply to prove to Bellamy that the ten-second kiss meant nothing to him either, that he was over it too. He could not use one of them to console himself over his sadness about the other.

This, if he was being honest with himself, was the knot of grief at the center of his loneliness, the weight he could never swallow all the way down, the root from which all his other sadnesses now seemed to flow: that Bellamy's question last night had forced a reckoning Marcus did not want, had opened up visions in his mind he could not shake, and left him with the realization that even if a miracle happened, even if one of them said yes, even if one of them loved him . . . it would not be enough.

In the fantasy of Bellamy, he still longed for Abby. In the fantasy of Abby, he still longed for Bellamy.

All these years of trying to keep his heart contained, his wants small, all these years of trying to convince himself that solitude and contentment and friendship and work and good sex and a sense of purpose were enough to fulfill a whole life . . . and all along, he was lying to himself.

_You want too much, Marcus,_ he thought, tears stinging his eyes again. _You want things you can't have. Why can't this be enough? Why can't you just let it go, and be grateful for what you have?_

Abby was here. Abby saw him. Abby was his friend. Abby would talk to him all night if he needed it. His heart was safe in her gentle hands.

So he closed his eyes, and he let the sound of her warm, cheerful voice settle over his skin like a blanket, and he allowed the silent tears to come, and finally he slept.


	11. Domum Matris Meae (“The house of my mother”)

**THREE YEARS AGO**

So many of the patterns in our lives - the peculiar symmetries and coincidences, the memories which echo and rhyme with each other, the moments which repeat and repeat and repeat like a living Purgatory until we’ve finally learned the lesson we were meant to learn - are invisible to us while we are still living inside them. Only afterwards, when we look back over the years, can we finally see where we’ve been.

Thus it was with Marcus and the Daughters of Eve.

It would never have occurred to him, all those years ago, the day that van rolled into town and the “For Sale” sign vanished from the outside of Our Lady of the Garden, that the cult would grow to play such a massive role in his life. Still less would he have guessed that its children would. 

Niylah would probably have lots to say about this, if he let her; she was very good at noticing patterns he’d rather she wouldn’t. She would find the symmetry of it rather poetic, and the emotional logic quite tidy and clear: that once free of her abusive relationship, the mother who had been unable to keep her own son safe would seek redemption by finding other children to rescue; that the little boy who had never been able to protect himself would grow up to be a man with a compulsion to protect everyone else. "You couldn't save yourself from your own father, but you could save Octavia from hers," she would say. There was nothing conscious, of course, about any of this. After so many years, it was now simply his nature. But still, the pattern was there.

But the most astonishing symmetry of all was the boy called Elias, and the two fateful appearances he made in Marcus’ life.

All the things that would come to pass over the years between Marcus and Bellamy - the pain and joy, the intimacy and grief, the future unfolding between them which neither of them yet knew -were born that night, the first time Elias walked into their lives. 

And the second time - though of course none of them knew this yet - another chain of events was set in motion; one which would reach out over a distance of three thousand miles and nineteen years to finally, finally, bring Abby back to him.

But the night it all began, Abby was, in fact, the furthest thing from his mind.

* * * * *

The string of texts from Octavia had been brief, cryptic, and alarming:

> _< new sheriff is here. looking for you> _
> 
> _< Brothers are with him> _
> 
> _< don’t come home> _

Marcus, returning from an evening meeting with the Chamber of Commerce, watched the texts pop up on his screen as he was paused at a red light, and cursed aloud.

Sheriff Emerson had taken over after Marcus’ old friend Miller retired, and the man had been nothing but trouble. It wasn’t exactly that he’d done anything overtly antagonistic yet; Marcus was friends with the mayor, most of the county commissioners, and a few staff members in the governor’s office, so if he’d had anything he could point to directly as harassment, the man would be fired by now. It was more that the staff of the Paradise had become accustomed, over the years, to a level of acceptance and respect from law enforcement that was unusual even for legal sex workers, a circumstance both Vera and Marcus had worked hard to achieve, and with Miller’s departure, that had evaporated overnight. Gone were the days in which a Paradise employee would be given the benefit of the doubt in any kind of a legal tussle, treated as respected local citizens. Emerson, in contrast, eyed them with intense distaste and suspicion.

It did not help that he was friendly with Brother Zechariah.

Emerson was not officially a member of the Daughters, but he was part of an unnervingly robust emerging population in the town of Eden - a kind of adjunct congregation, or perhaps that was too strong a word; admirers, maybe - who did not practice the cult’s more aggressive teachings but who shared Brother Zechariah’s desire to “purify” the community. The protests outside his mother's church a few years ago, which forced the pastor to apologetically return Marcus' check for funeral expenses and decline his request to bury Vera there, had been their opening salvo; Emerson wasn't sheriff then, but he'd been out front with the Brothers, holding cardboard signs. Since then, Marcus had trod more carefully with the cult, unwilling to put anyone else he loved in jeopardy, and in return the Daughters had largely gone quiet. Still, he was uncomfortably aware that the balance of power which had skewed so heavily in his direction for so many years was now far closer to 50/50 than he would have liked.

He pulled off the road into a gas station parking lot and texted Octavia back.

> _ <Is everyone safe? what do they want?> _

Octavia’s reply was brief but mercifully quick.

> _ <everyone safe. too long to explain. Indra got rid of them for now> _
> 
> _ <wherever you are, stay there> _
> 
> _ <i’ll text when the sheriff leaves> _

The next fifteen minutes passed with excruciating slowness. Marcus went into the gas station mini mart for an iced tea and a bag of pretzels, mostly to give himself an excuse to sit parked in the corner without awakening any suspicion, and then filled the gas tank up anyway, even though he’d done it last week and it was still well over three-quarters full. By the time he’d exhausted all possible justifications for loitering here, and was considering just getting back in his car and driving around in circles until he got the go-ahead from Octavia, his phone finally buzzed again.

> _ <come in through the back and go straight upstairs. we’re all in your parents’ apartment> _

This, more than anything else she had said, set off alarm bells in the back of his mind that something here was very wrong.

Marcus at age forty still slept in the same small but comfortable suite of rooms which had been his since he turned eighteen and his parents allowed him to move downstairs into the staff quarters. The family apartment, at the end of the hallway on the top floor, was far more spacious, with a real kitchen (the staff rooms had only small kitchenettes), a spacious living and dining room, and two full bedrooms with their own bath. Marcus had grown up in that second bedroom, but the Kane family dwelling had never felt like a home; on the contrary, for all the years his father was alive, even well into his adulthood, those rooms had been a source of continual anxiety and fear. Moving into his own quarters downstairs had felt like a miracle. He'd made them his own, over the years, and when he thought of the word "home," it was this. His own overcrowded bookshelf, his own record collection. Furniture he'd collected and upgraded over the years, wallpaper and paint and light fixtures he'd chosen himself. Even after Harry Kane's ghost slowly faded away, taking so much of Marcus' fear with it, the other apartment never felt like home again; it was simply the place where his mother lived.

After Vera’s death, the apartment rightfully became his, but he did not take it - no matter how hard Indra pressed him, reminding Marcus that space was always at a premium, that they could add more onsite staff if another room in that hall opened up, and that it was more appropriate for the owner of the establishment to have his own living space rather than sharing a hall with his employees.

It was hard to dispute this logic, and even Marcus did not quite know why he was so resistant. Lord knew he certainly had enough money that he could have stripped the place down to the studs and remodeled it completely to purge every last fading wisp of Harry Kane's menacing presence. But there was something in the notion of boxing up his mother's things and packing them away - turning the apartment into a place where Vera Kane no longer lived - which overwhelmed him. The extra space would be nice to have, but he could not bear to live in that apartment alone. And besides, there was always an excuse to put it off, so he continued year after year to kick the can down the road and leave the apartment as a problem for Future Marcus. “I’ll deal with it eventually,” he said to Indra, year after year, and never did.

But Vera had given Octavia a key, years ago, for those recurring nights over the first few years in which sleeping alone in a dark room gave the girl nightmares, and she preferred the warmth and light of Vera’s overstuffed pink chenille couch, with the fringed lamp in the corner behind it shining merrily all night to keep her own ghosts away. Marcus had long suspected that Octavia still went up there sometimes - like him, she had pockets of darkness buried in her past history which sometimes caught up to her still - but he had never asked.

Not once, however, in the years since Vera died, had she asked Marcus to meet her there.

Wary of being caught speeding by one of Sheriff Emerson's deputies, he drove back to the hotel as quickly as he could without going even one notch above the limit, but his impatience, curiosity and worry seemed to multiply the closer he got to home. He took the stairs up to the apartment two at a time, mind churning through possibilities as he sped toward the door and pushed it open; but the one facing him as he entered was not, in fact, one he had ever considered.

“Hi, Marcus,” said Elias, a little shyly, rising from the sofa where he sat between Harper and Bellamy, Octavia seated on the armchair beside them. “I didn’t forget.”

* * * * *

His story was brief and harrowing and they did not make him dwell on it. He’d kept the business card Marcus gave him, hidden in the sole of his boot just as he'd said; but after the incident in the motel, Uncle Josiah had redoubled his vigilance, and Elias had been forced to wait nearly a year for another opportunity to escape. The compound was heavily alarmed and guarded, he explained, with cameras and tripwires everywhere, as much to keep its inhabitants inside as to keep intruders out. Salvation had come in the form of a trip to the hardware store; Josiah was busy, so Elias had been sent with two of the older Brothers who wanted a young strong back to haul bags of cement mix between the store and the truck. He'd asked to use the bathroom while they were out back in the supply shed, but snuck into the deserted back office instead, to use the phone. Through some divine providence, it was Harper herself on phone duty at the front desk that day, and she'd had Octavia there to collect him from the back parking lot before the Brothers even realized the boy was missing. And while it hadn't taken them long to put the pieces together, and to call in Sheriff Emerson as backup, he'd arrived with just enough of a head start to be safely tucked away by the time they arrived in pursuit.

Murphy arrived shortly as Elias was finishing his tale, bearing a platter of ham sandwiches, a pitcher of lemonade, and a large Tupperware container he’d pulled out of the freezer containing the rest of last week’s batch of brown butter and sea salt chocolate chip cookies. “My artistry will be absolutely fucking wasted on a ravenous teenager,” he’d remarked to Marcus as he departed, “but the kid looks like he hasn’t eaten a cookie in his entire fucking life.”

“He might not have,” said Marcus. “Octavia showed up here not knowing what a cinnamon roll was.”

Murphy shook his head in disgust. “Man, fuck those people,” he said, as he made his way down the stairs, and Marcus reflected that there was something both amusing and poignant in his indignation about Brother Zechariah’s ban on sweets. The young chef knew as well as anyone else here about the trauma the cult’s children had endured, and that a lack of access to breakfast pastry ranked fairly low on the list of Octavia’s struggles. But he’d latched onto this one not merely because it affected him personally - since satisfying her now-voracious sweet tooth was part of his job now - but because in a way, it distilled a whole complex ecosystem of deprivations, emotional abuses, control tactics, and plain old-fashioned cruelty into something very simple. 

The Daughters of Eve did not allow their children to eat anything which might give them pleasure. In a way, that said it all.

Marcus, whose palate was sophisticated enough that he knew _exactly_ how to appreciate Murphy’s artistry, took two cookies from the plastic tub and sat down on the sofa beside Octavia, taking a bite out of one and handing the other to her. They watched in silence for a moment as Bellamy rummaged around in Vera’s kitchen and found plates, napkins, glasses, and sat down to chat quietly with Elias at the dining room table. Harper, on the phone with her sisters in Salt Lake, was pacing back and forth in the hallway leading to the bedrooms, just out of earshot.

“Another time,” said Octavia, without looking at him, and in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, “you’re going to tell me the story of how it was that you came to break one of your strictest rules, and hired someone you’d already fucked.”

“I didn’t,” said Marcus, which was true only by the most legalistic definition of the word "fuck" but was otherwise a fairly semantic difference Octavia was unlikely to appreciate. “Elias must have told you how we met, then.”

“He assumed Bellamy was your boyfriend. You can imagine my confusion.”

“Was Harper there for that part of the conversation?”

“You mean, does she also know that you lied to everyone about how Bellamy got here? No.”

“I didn’t lie, Octavia. I happened to meet him at Charmaine’s. I didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know who I was.”

“But you did the next day,” she pointed out. “When you had a chance to say, ‘no, sorry, there’s a conflict of interest, we can’t hire this person,’ and then you didn’t say that.”

“You like Bellamy,” he said, knowing it was a weak answer. “Are you saying you wish he wasn’t here?”

“I’m less concerned with him right now than I am with you.”

“What’s your concern, exactly?”

“That all of this is a very Octavia thing to do,” she said, a little pointedly, “but it’s not at all a Marcus thing to do.”

“I don’t quite know how to take that.”

“You broke one of your rules.”

“I _bent_ it, at worst.”

“See? _That._ Making excuses for it. That’s what _I_ do. That’s not what _you_ do. I’m the one who’s always testing to see how far I can push you without getting in trouble. You’re the one who lives inside a grid of squares and never steps outside of them.”

Marcus turned and looked at her, brow furrowed, a flash of something in his eyes which might have been hurt. “That’s not really how you see me, is it?” he asked quietly. “That I’m just . . . a person who stays inside the lines all the time. Who never takes a risk.”

“You do take risks, but only when they’re in line with your rules,” she said. “You took a chance on me because protecting people who are in danger is one of the rules. The same with Harper. You didn’t care how dangerous it was, how pissed the Daughter would be, because your moral compass was pointing at north and you knew that you were right. And everything about Elias - what you did for him, how you protected him, how you saw what he needed, how you took care of him - that’s all right in line with the same rule. And frankly,” she added, “the fact that Bellamy was part of it makes me like him better.”

“Good.”

“But the thing I can’t make fit,” Octavia went on, frustration creeping into her voice, “is the part where you hired him the next day anyway. Without saying anything to Indra. Or to the rest of us. And he’s been here almost a year.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “I think you just . . . _wanted_ him,” she said softly. “You liked him, and you didn’t want to lose him, and you didn’t think it would hurt anybody, or be too difficult to keep a secret, so you just bent the rule a little bit, to let yourself have something you wanted.”

“Is that really so bad?” Marcus asked softly, eyes fixed on Bellamy and Elias at the dinner table, laughing and talking around mouthfuls of ham sandwich.

“No,” said Octavia, “it’s not. It’s just that _it isn’t you.”_

Marcus sighed. “I didn’t break the rule just to hire him so I could fuck him, Octavia.”

“Did I say that?”

“He wanted this job so much. He wanted a home so much. Safety, stability, a family. All the things you wanted, when you came here. All the things you didn’t grow up with. He didn’t either. And I didn’t want my own selfish desire to be the reason he didn’t get to have those things. That wouldn’t have been fair to him.”

Octavia looked at him in silence for a long moment, then sighed, and let her knee nudge ever so slightly against his own, a tiny gesture which, for her, passed for an embrace.

“So you broke your own rule to make someone else happy, because that mattered more than your own safety,” she said. “I kind of wish you _had_ just hired him to fuck him. It might have been less dangerous that way.”

“We’re friends, Octavia,” he said firmly. “He and I have been over this, more than once. There’s nothing else to say. Anything more . . . intimate between us is in the past.”

“If you say so,” she said, and she didn’t look at him again after that, but her elbow bumped gently against his arm, which was how he knew he was forgiven.

“Great news,” said Harper, hanging up her cell phone and returning to the living room. “Fox and Maya said there’s a spare room in the house all ready to go. They had another kid staying there - a boy they found who’d been living on the park benches across the street, his parents kicked him out after they found out he was gay - but he got a job as a dishwasher a few months ago and finally has enough money to actually rent a room somewhere himself. So Elias won’t end up having to crash on the floor in a sleeping bag like the rest of us did when we first got there,” she added, laughing, but only the young people laughed back.

Marcus pressed his hands into fists at his side, and took three deep breaths, fighting to swallow back tears before he spoke.

Harper had sent them letters every few months, after they left, and when she returned to Eden, Maya had kept up the tradition. Vera had found a rambling, slightly-decrepit five-bedroom house in a safe, quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, and bought it that day for cash. She had refused any attempts on the runaways’ behalf to make arrangements to pay her back, and asked only one thing for them in exchange: that as long as they lived there, that house would be a safe place for any young person with nowhere else to go. Over the years they’d funneled through many more children from the Daughters of Eve compound, some of whom had grown up and gone off into the world to find homes and lives of their own and o carry Vera’s message forward. They got postcards, sometimes - the Grand Canyon and the La Brea Tar Pits and Crater Lake - scrawled with happy, grateful messages from kids who had only crossed paths with the Kanes for a few brief moments on one terrifying night, but never forgot their courage or kindness, and had now escaped Eden to see the world. But for every runaway who found their feet and moved out of that house, there were always more people in need. They’d had kids from other cults, kids whose parents kicked them out for being queer or trans, kids they’d discovered living on the streets. Callie and her husband lived in Salt Lake now too, and she’d taken a liking to Harper when they met a few years ago, so she helped the kids whenever she could - job references, groceries, babysitting. “It isn’t exactly the Paradise,” Harper had said to Marcus once, almost apologetically. “But we tried to make it someplace your mom would be proud of.”

Elias, though, seemed struck by something else Harper had said. “You’ve had kids there who have been kicked out for being . . . like me?” he asked. “So it’s okay with them that I - that I like boys? They know about me? They don’t mind?”

Harper pulled out one of the chairs beside Elias, sat down facing him, and took both of his hands in her own.

“Elias,” she said gently. “None of us can control what the world is, except to work little bit by little bit to try and make it better. None of us can stop the shitty things some asshole might say about people like you - about people like all of us, everyone in this room. None of us can promise that everything will be easy forever.” She squeezed his hands. “What I _can_ promise you,” she went on seriously, “is that for the rest of your life, wherever you go, you will always have a home to come back to at the end of the day where you will be safe exactly as you are. Everyone in this room has been told that we’re sinful. Everyone in this room has been told that we’re going to hell. But we’ve chosen not to believe it. We’ve chosen to believe in each other instead. And you belong to us now. Now there are people who will always be on your side.”

The look on Elias’ face at these words - the way all the tension seemed to collapse out of his lanky, angular body, the way his eyes lit up like he hadn’t truly believed it until she said it out loud - caused something in Marcus’ heart to snap completely. He attempted to brush away his tears tactfully and discreetly, without drawing Elias’ attention, but Octavia did not fail to notice.

“Oh, come here, you old softy,” she muttered affectionately, pulling Marcus into his arms to pat his back comfortingly, all the while making amused faces at Harper over the top of his head.

Marcus could not see the look on Bellamy’s face, a swift flash of suppressed longing, as though he wished for a moment that he could switch places with Octavia - that he could be the one with an excuse to put his arms around Marcus, and give him comfort. But instead, he was a whole room away, and Elias needed him more, so he turned around, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said quiet, reassuring things Marcus couldn’t hear.

“You’re such a dad sometimes,” said Octavia, pressing an unexpected and rather un-Octavia-like kiss onto the top of Marcus’ head. “You’re all weepy like you’re sending your kids off to college.”

He dried his eyes a little, and sat up, but took advantage of her current tolerance for proximity and allowed himself to continue leaning against her slender shoulder. She was all sharp angles and birdlike, narrow bones, so it was not a comfortable resting place, but he was curiously reluctant to leave it; only a handful of times in the past decade or so had she openly invited his physical affection like this.

“I’m getting misty in my old age,” he said.

She laughed. “And, also, in your defense,” she pointed out, “you and your mother spent a lot of years trying to move the needle in a small, conservative town, trying to make your corner of the world a little bit better. So you’re allowed to get a little weepy over the fact that you really have.”

“It’s all because of you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? It’s important to me that you know that.”

She shook her head. “This was always who you were.”

“No,” he said. “You asked me, the night we met - and you were right - how many times I’d walked past the Daughters in the grocery store or on the street, and pitied you, or even judged sometimes, but never actually done anything about it. You were the first person who challenged me to be more than just a bystander.” He lifted his head from her shoulder and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “You changed my whole life,” he said. “If I don’t tell you that every day, you should know that I’m always thinking it.”

“I could say the same to you,” she said, letting her hand rest for just a moment on his knee, before rising from the sofa - as if to say, _That’s enough of that,_ as if she was already surprised at herself for allowing her walls to stay lowered as long as she already had - and making her way over to the table to give Bellamy an affectionate kick in the back of the shin, and take one of the ham sandwiches.

“How soon can they get here?” she asked Harper. Fox had a car now - a hand-me-down they’d gotten for free from Callie and her husband - which meant no longer were the Kanes or their staff obligated to disappear mysteriously for a day or two in order to smuggle kids to the house in Salt Lake.

“They’ll be here by six,” said Harper.

Marcus stared at her. “Good Lord, they’ll have to leave at like . . . two a.m.,” he said. “And it’s almost ten now.”

“There’s no help for it,” said Octavia. “Indra managed to stall the sheriff and the Brothers because they didn’t have a search warrant, but I’m pretty sure they’ll be back tomorrow as soon as they can get one. They knew Elias was here, they just couldn’t prove it. The county clerk doesn’t open until nine a.m., so if all goes to plan, we’ll have him across the Nevada border before the sheriff even has time to start checking license plates.”

“And before you ask,” Bellamy added, “we’ve talked it over, and nobody minds having to lie to the sheriff.”

“Indra’s looking forward to it, I think,” said Octavia.

“So we just need to put Elias up in a room for the night,” said Harper, “and everything else is settled.”

“I can take the couch up here,” said the boy immediately. “Or the floor. I don’t want to be a bother to anybody.”

“No,” said Marcus. “I’m putting you in one of the hotel rooms for tonight.”

“I don’t have any -” the boy began nervously, but everyone in the room waved this off.

“I know,” said Marcus. “You don’t owe me a penny. But I think, before we send you out on your own, to start your new life, there’s one last thing I’d like us to be able to do for you.”

“What’s that?”

Marcus did not answer him immediately, but looked at both the girls. “Harper,” he said, “can you go down to reception and tell them to find an empty room for Elias? Octavia, I need to see Luna and Nate, right away. Tell them to clear their schedules for the night and send their invoices straight to me.”

The girls looked at each other, but obeyed, leaving the room together. Bellamy rose to leave, but Marcus stopped him.

“No,” he said. “Stay for a minute. Please.”

“What was it,” asked Elias, “that you wanted to do before tomorrow?”

“There were things we couldn’t teach you on a cucumber in a hotel room,” said Marcus carefully. “Things you deserve to know. Things it might help you to learn in a place that’s safe, from people who are safe. From people who are used to teaching beginners. Luna is our massage therapist, and she doesn’t have sex with clients, so you don’t need to worry about it if you aren’t attracted to women. But what she’s very good at is teaching people who are uncomfortable with being touched how to trust being close to another person’s body. She’s worked with a lot of people like you. I promise you’ll be safe with her.”

“And who’s the other one?” he asked. “Nate?”

“Nate,” said Marcus, “is going to teach you the things that we didn’t. Someone needs to show you all the things about how your body works which have to be taught on your body. He’ll give you a safe word, before you start, which is like a code that means ‘stop.’ You can use it any time, for any reason, and it won’t hurt his feelings if you do. It’s to make sure you know you’re always in control. And he may suggest lots of different kinds of things to try, so you can learn what you like, and how you like it, so that later - if you meet someone you like - you know how to ask for those things.” He gave Elias a long look. “Is that okay with you?” he asked. “Is that something you think you might want?”

The boy nodded, with a kind of terrified, awestruck eagerness, like someone had just asked him if he might like to have a million dollars. “And Nate won’t mind that I don’t know how to,” he began awkwardly. “That I’ve never -”

“He won’t mind at all,” Bellamy reassured him. “Marcus pairs Nate with first-timers a lot, actually. He’s a good teacher. And this is his job, which means he’s very used to lots of different kinds of people with lots of different amounts of experience.”

“I got you in trouble, I think,” said Elias suddenly. “The girls didn’t know. I accidentally said -”

“Please, don’t worry about that right now,” said Marcus. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Would it be easier if I told Nate and Luna that I met just one of you at the motel? And that you weren’t there together?”

“No need. Bellamy and I met you at the Shamrock when we were there having a drink. We do that all the time. If Nate wants to be nosy about it, he can be nosy at me.”

“I feel bad,” said Elias. “I just assumed. You just seemed like a couple. I’d never seen two men sitting together like a real couple before. I didn’t even know men were allowed to do that. All out in the open. With so many other people around, who didn’t mind.”

“You’ll have that yourself someday,” said Marcus, an infinitely easier answer than addressing the word “couple” which hung heavily in the air between them. “We promise.”

An hour later, Harper and Octavia had Elias snugly ensconced in one of the third-floor garden-view hotel rooms, in the fanciest bed he’d ever seen in his life (“Enjoy it,” Harper had laughed, “you’ll be on a bunk once you get to Salt Lake”), and Marcus had thoroughly debriefed Luna and Nate on their task and sent them on their way, leaving him to lock up his mother’s apartment and make his way back down the stairs with Bellamy.

“What a long, weird night,” said Bellamy, as they reached the door of his bedroom.

“I’ll say,” agreed Marcus fervently. 

“Do you -” Bellamy began, and then stopped. “Do you want to come in for a drink?” he asked, surprising both of them.

“Yes,” said Marcus immediately, surprising them both even more.

Marcus had caught glimpses of the interior of Bellamy’s apartment many times over the past year, since he had moved in, but had never actually been invited inside it. They’d struggled mightily, after the night of Marcus’ birthday party, to find a new kind of platonic equilibrium with each other, and they’d been largely successful, but it required careful boundaries. Bellamy had never set foot in Marcus’ quarters, nor Marcus into his since that first day when there was no furniture in it. They both had Monday nights off, and had taken to spending them together at the Shamrock, sitting together at that back booth with their books and drinks and hamburgers, and this had become a pleasant weekly tradition. The staff also used the lounge as a kind of communal living room, if someone wanted to watch football or play a board game or simply read a magazine someplace where there were other people around. Not to mention that they all ate meals together every day, and that the green room adjoining the theatres was usually a fairly popular hangout area between performances. So there were no shortage of safe, comfortable, not-alone-in-someone’s-bedroom areas for them to spend time together, with coffee or beers or just reading their books side by side in amicable silence.

So this was, if not precisely the crossing of a line, at the very least a decisive step, and they were both intensely aware of it. But there was no one else besides each other that they could talk to about this, and the desire for company felt suddenly like a necessity.

Marcus stepped rather timidly inside, as Bellamy made his way over to the small refrigerator beneath the counter and pulled out two beers. “Is this okay?” he asked. “Beer’s all I have.”

“Beer is great. Thank you.”

While Bellamy hunted through a drawer for a bottle opener, Marcus took the opportunity to look around, taking in what the younger man had done with the room which had been completely bare last time Marcus sat foot in it. His mental picture that day had turned out to be remarkably accurate, as it happened; even after one night, he’d already understood Bellamy rather well. 

There was a modest budget, usually two or three thousand dollars, for new staff members’ move-in costs, and when the company ended the year with a surplus (as it did most years), Marcus always reserved a portion for upgrades to the residences. Sometimes it was for shared expenses - last year, he’d sprung for a kitchen retrofit for Murphy; the year before, it had been new couches and a really good TV for the staff lounge - and sometimes for individual ones, like the year everyone got new overhead lighting and their bedrooms painted. This room had last belonged to Roan’s on/off girlfriend-slash-frenemy Anya, though she had a much more lucrative job in Vegas now, and hadn’t stayed long. But she’d been here the year everyone got to choose their own paint samples, and she’d picked a deep forest green, with dark wooden furniture. The other girls had found her aesthetic a little gloomy, but Marcus never minded it. Anya had grown up in the forests of British Columbia, and it made sense to him why, in the privacy of her own rooms, she liked to pretend she wasn’t in a hot yellow desert anymore.

The green suited Bellamy too. He’d lightened the atmosphere, a bit, from Anya’s more somber taste; pale grays and blues in the linens and upholstery, white curtains to let in the light, and more oak than mahogany in his furnishings. Everything was simple, and spare; he hadn't brought much with him from Wyoming except clothes (all tucked neatly in his small closet) and books (which were everywhere); everything else had come from the big box stores in neighboring Elko, or from thrift shops around town. But it was a warmer and more relaxed kind of simplicity than Anya's spartan aesthetic. Bellamy had potted succulents on the windowsill, a French press on the kitchen counter, and books on every surface, overflowing from the shelf in the corner by the window.

He’d hung photos, too, which Marcus hadn’t noticed the last time he’d caught a glimpse inside the open door, and which he could not stop himself from drifting over to examine as Bellamy finally found the bottle opener to pop the tops off the beer bottles.

It was like a little gallery, mostly small square frames - some were Polaroids (Harper was very into Polaroids these days; they were suddenly trendy again, Marcus was learning) and some he recognized from the kids' Instagrams. 

Bellamy and Octavia on a morning run, stopping to take a selfie together under a particularly radiant desert sunrise, the sky above them streaked with salmon and fuchsia and gold.

Harper and Nate on the sofas in the staff lounge, wearing matching fuzzy pink and blue bathrobes, with bright green clay masks on their faces, sticking their tongues out at the camera. 

Raven and Murphy and Roan at a football game, nachos in hand, on their feet and screaming wildly. (When the Raiders moved from Oakland to Las Vegas last year, one of Roan’s regulars, who worked for the team’s new owner, had given the whole staff tickets.)

Bellamy’s first Christmas at the Paradise, with the whole staff gathered around the tree in the staff lounge, still in pajamas and drinking their coffee. Indra was wearing both the Santa hat - indicating it was her turn to open a present - and the weary, indignant expression she always wore whenever it was her turn for the Santa hat, which had become a cherished holiday tradition of its own.

Some of the pictures captured ordinary moments, like staff breakfasts, or happy hours at the Shamrock or El Sombrero. Others were from special days Marcus remembered vividly, like the all-staff charity soccer game where they’d played the Main Street Business Association and lost by a hair, mostly because Charmaine Diyoza was completely unstoppable. Bellamy and his friends, or his friends with each other, groups of people laughing and goofing off and beaming at the camera, the happy family Bellamy had never had. Every photo radiated the same youthful, giddy energy.

Every photo, except one.

Hanging in the very center of this sea of laughing faces was a picture of Marcus Kane, alone.

It was not an extraordinary or distinctive moment, particularly. It appeared, the closer he looked at it, to have been an ordinary Monday night at the Shamrock. Marcus was sitting in their usual booth, already immersed in his book, drinking a Hendricks and tonic with a slice of cucumber. He’d beaten Bellamy there, apparently, and hadn’t noticed the younger man’s arrival yet, because the photo had been taken without his realizing it.

Marcus knew very well that he had never seen this photo before. It had never appeared on Bellamy’s Instagram - not even his locked, private one - and he hadn’t taken it to show to Marcus. He’d taken it for himself. It was a peculiarly quiet center to this colorful, vibrant wall full of laughter and memories; but there was also something oddly intimate about it. It was a Marcus with no walls up, a Marcus at rest, who thought he was alone. Just stillness, and peace.

It was ironic, how strangely naked it made him feel, knowing that Bellamy had taken this photo and hung it on his wall and looked at it every day. That this, somehow, was who Marcus was to him.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Bellamy, handing him a beer with an embarrassed, apologetic little laugh. “It was the light. You looked like a Rembrandt.”

“Thank you, I think,” said Marcus, tearing his eyes away with a curious reluctance, already knowing that he would be lying awake for hours tonight overthinking what _“you looked like a Rembrandt”_ could mean, and already hating himself for it, as he followed Bellamy to the loveseat. It was not a large sofa, and there was little space between them, but they gave each other as much as was there.

“To Elias,” said Bellamy, holding out his beer bottle.

Marcus clinked it with his own. “To Elias.”

They each took a long drink. Then Marcus set his bottle down on the coffee table - where Bellamy had already placed a coaster for him - and turned to look at the younger man thoughtfully. “Will you ever feel safe enough here to tell me, do you think?” he asked. “This isn’t a reproach, by the way. You don’t have to.”

Bellamy met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Tell you what?”

“How _you_ managed to cross paths with the Daughters of Eve,” said Marcus. “They didn’t recognize you, that night in the bar. But I think you recognized them.”

Bellamy froze, his beer still in his hand, hovering over the surface of the table, and a look passed across his face that made Marcus immediately regret his intrusion.

“Here,” the older man said, gently plucking the bottle out of Bellamy’s hand, “let me just . . . set that down before you dump it all over yourself.”

“Sorry. Sorry, I just -”

“Don’t be. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s not that you asked,” said Bellamy a little helplessly. “It’s just that . . . a lot of effort goes into not thinking about it. It isn’t a nice story.”

Marcus nodded. This, he understood. “Mine isn’t either, in many places,” he said. “I understand. There are times when it helps to talk about it, to say things out loud enough times that they lose their power; and there are times when the only thing that helps is just . . . not to be there anymore. Not to let that moment exist in your mind, if you can help it.”

“Exactly. And it’s hard to know which is which.”

“You never have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” said Marcus. “But there’s also nothing you could ever say that would change things between us, or make me think less of you. Niylah is also always an option too, of course, and she’s very good. But if you ever change your mind, and you do want to talk, and it seems as though it might be easier to tell a friend than a therapist . . . just know that I’m here.”

Bellamy took a long drink of his beer, and regarded Marcus thoughtfully. “I was right about you, that first night,” he said. “You see people. You saw Elias, and you saw me.”

“That’s because you’re both important."

“I’m glad you weren’t here when the Brothers came,” said Bellamy. “The shitty uncle was with them, and he was spoiling for a fight. I don’t know if he knew Elias was here, somehow, or only assumed it, but he’d only managed to beat them here by about twenty minutes. I just had enough time to hide him in the kitchen with Octavia and Harper when they came storming in. Indra was more than a match for them, but I think the only reason it didn’t end with fists swinging was because when they charged into the lobby there was no one around but women.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell Indra that,” he said mildly. “She’ll regret that she didn’t take them all out when she had the chance. You did good, by the way,” he added. “It was smart of you to hide everyone whose faces they’d recognize.”

“It wasn’t Brother Zechariah, but I bet he’ll be back tomorrow,” said Marcus. “It was the uncle and a red-haired guy who looked like an angry Boston cop from a movie.”

“You’ll never believe it,” said Marcus, “but that’s Brother Daniel.”

Bellamy’s whole body tensed up. “Octavia was _married_ to that piece of shit? When she was only _fifteen?”_

“Easy,” said Marcus, grim amusement in his voice. “I don’t want to have to go spring you from county lockup tomorrow along with Indra.”

“I know, it’s just -”

“He can’t hurt her now, remember. She’s safe with us.”

“It was just easier, I think, when he was just a faceless picture in my mind. When she talked about him, and I didn’t see a person. But now, picturing _that fucking guy,_ with his hands all over her -”

“I know,” Marcus agreed. “It’s awful. And somewhere in that compound, there’s another fifteen-year-old girl it’s happening to right now. And without Sheriff Miller, it feels harder and harder to stop it.”

“We got Elias out, at least,” said Bellamy. “Thank God.”

“Thank God,” Marcus repeated fervently. “I worried about him every day.”

“He’ll be okay,” said Bellamy, with more confidence than he perhaps felt. “Luna and Nate will take care of him. That was a really good idea.”

Marcus nodded. “I trust them. And he’ll be safe in Salt Lake, with the rest of Harper’s family. He’s old enough to be able to find work right away, at least. I just . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes it’s just all . . . too much.”

“What’s too much?” asked Bellamy. “What’s bothering you?”

“It’s hard to put my finger on it, exactly.”

“Is it the cult?”

“Yes and no. I mean, Elias was what brought it to mind - and I think about Harper too, and Octavia - but . . . I don't know, Bellamy. I mean, even kids who grow up in this town who _aren’t_ raised by the Daughters of Eve - I’ve seen what they teach in the schools here, I don’t think they’ve updated the curriculum since I had to take it myself -”

“Back in prehistoric times,” said Bellamy helpfully, earning himself a kick in the shin.

“Very funny. Anyway, all I remember of sex ed in school was that it was so useless Mom used to laugh out loud when I told her about it. I think the Eden Valley School Board inherited a Soviet textbook during the Cold War and just called it a day.” He took a long swig of his beer, warming to his subject, realizing as he spoke that he felt more strongly about this than he’d realized. “No one ever taught Elias how anything _worked,”_ he said, frustration seeping into his voice. “He was just going to be left on his own, to learn it all himself, if you and I hadn’t been there. And that was by complete accident. And he won’t be the only one. Sometimes kids - even the ones that aren’t in cults - they don’t have parents they can ask, or safe adults, and some corners of the internet are trustworthy but others aren’t, and I worry about them so much. You don’t want them learning about sex - or worse, _thinking_ they’re learning about sex - from whatever porn they first stumble into, without anyone to help them navigate it. They need an expert who can talk to them without shame, and that’s hard to find. I’ve seen this over and over. You’d be astonished at how often sex workers double as accidental educators. People just need someone to show them how things _work.”_

Bellamy set down his beer. “You know what they need,” he said, turning to look at Marcus.

“What?”

“They need a doctor.”

“Well, yeah, ideally -”

“No,” said Bellamy. “I mean _you_ need a doctor. Marcus, think about it. A sex education curriculum, for teenagers of any gender or sexual orientation. Created by a sex worker and a medical professional together. This could be a game-changer.”

Marcus gave him a long, long look. “When you say ‘a sex worker and a medical professional together,’” he said. “Just to clarify. You’re suggesting that I use this as an excuse to get Abby to come visit.”

“Well, that would be a pretty enjoyable side benefit, yes,” Bellamy allowed. “But I am actually serious, Marcus. I was there with you, remember. I know Elias too. You don’t need to sell me on the idea that we’re failing kids in how we talk about sex. I’m just saying, do you want to _talk_ about it, or do you want to _do_ something about it?”

Marcus didn’t respond for a long time. Bellamy could see the wheels turning, could almost hear the clicking together of pieces in his mind.

“It would be an almost impossible sell to get it into the hands of the kids who would actually need it,” he said slowly. “To get the school district on board, for example.”

“You’re a pretty persuasive man.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And your family has built up decades of goodwill in this town,” said Bellamy. “People trust you. You have some capital to spend, Marcus. You could use it on this. You could do something. Really do something. And you could do it with Abby, which I think would be good for you.”

“You do, do you.”

“You’re obviously crazy about her, you’ve been sexting for like two years -”

“Oh, _Jesus Christ,_ Bellamy!"

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger. Nate and Raven are the ones who spilled the beans."

"My phone is locked, how did they even -"

"It took Raven like five minutes to guess your passcode. If you're going to keep this up, you're going to need two-factor authentication and probably the fingerprint thing. I'm just looking out for you here."

“The number of human resources violations in this conversation -”

"Look around your glass house for a minute before you pick that stone up," said Bellamy wryly. "After the tenth or twelfth time you checked your phone in the middle of staff meeting, blushed like a teenager, and shoved it back into your pocket before anyone else accidentally saw, we mostly put two and two together on our own even before Raven went digging. You aren't as discreet as you think you are."

"Fine. If you're trying to humiliate me, you've made your point."

"That wasn't my point. My point was that you should call her, and invite her out here, because you obviously want to."

Marcus hesitated. “She was married for sixteen years,” he said, a little heavily. “She only lost her husband two years ago. She might not be ready to - cross that line again yet.”

Bellamy leaned back against the sofa cushions and folded his arms. “How many nights a week do you make her come on the phone?”

A furious red blush swept Marcus’ cheeks, and he looked away. “I’m not answering that,” he said stiffly.

Bellamy burst out laughing. “Marcus, you fuck for a _living.”_

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because that's work, and this is personal.”

“So you admit it,” said the boy triumphantly.

“Admit what?”

“That you have a personal, intimate relationship with this woman. Already.”

“That’s not . . .”

“Listen. The worst she can say is no.”

“Exactly. She could say no. Which would be devastating.”

“She’s also contributing to this phone sex though, yes?” Bellamy prodded. “I mean, she makes you come too.”

Marcus buried his head in his hands. “This is excruciating.”

“Marcus, this is so obvious I can’t believe I have to spell it out for you. She definitely, definitely wants to fuck you again. And you _transparently_ want to fuck her. And I just handed you an excuse to call her and make it happen, which also has the side benefit of being something that you really want to do. You can get laid _and_ make the world better. Why are you still sitting here talking to me?”

He waited, arms folded, shooting a stern glare at the older man, who finally surrendered under his accusatory gaze.

“I’ll call her in the morning,” Marcus promised.

“No, you won’t.”

“I will. Or . . . at the very least by the end of the week.”

“Marcus.”

“Before Sunday.”

“Coward.”

“Give me a minute to get my feet under me first,” said Marcus irritably. “I haven’t had to do this in a long time.”

“You could practice on Octavia.”

“We are not discussing _any of this_ with Octavia.”

“I’m giving you forty-eight hours,” said Bellamy, picking his beer back up again. “If you haven’t done it by then, I’m calling her myself. You know we all have her number now.”

“That’s it,” grumbled Marcus. “Tomorrow, I’m firing all of you.”

“No, you aren’t, because you don’t know how to fix the copier when it breaks. You’ll need to keep at least one of us.”

“I pick Lincoln. He talks the least.”

Bellamy laughed. “Forty-eight hours,” he said. “I think this would be really good for you. Take a goddamn chance, for once in your life.”

* * * * *

Marcus rose blearily with the sun to see Elias off, sending him and Fox off on the road with hugs all around, a packed cooler of snacks from Murphy, the entire contents of the petty cash envelope in Indra’s drawer, and all his love to the rest of the kids. Then he shuffled back up to bed, to sleep for a few more hours before the inevitable return of Sheriff Emerson and the Brothers - which turned out to be laughably anticlimactic.

They had returned with a search warrant, exactly as predicted, a little before ten a.m. But the moment Indra - knowing the boy was safely across the border into Utah by now - sweetly agreed to cooperate with any legal request the sheriff might have, both he and Brother Zechariah knew they’d lost. They stomped around and invaded the kitchen and barged into a couple of guest rooms, just to be a nuisance; but if Indra was willing to graciously permit them to search any room they liked, then it meant the boy was very clearly not in the building, and this was a waste of time. They’d stormed out shooting death glares over their shoulders; but Elias was safe from them, forever, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Meanwhile, the forty-eight hour window Bellamy had given him came and went, and though he texted with Abby every day, and called her twice, he still could not bring himself to mention it. He kept waiting for some magically perfect conversational opening, which never materialized, and somehow it felt as though extending a direct offer - reintroducing the possibility of being in the same place, of physicality, of touch - would fundamentally alter the delicate gravitational balance of the thing they’d built between them. 

But he wanted to, very badly, and not just for selfish reasons. Because Bellamy's idea was a brilliant one, and he knew Abby would think so too. He even inadvertently recruited her an assistant: a friend of Lincoln’s named Nyko, a great tattooed bear of a man with what Murphy described as “big Viking energy." Nyko was the medic on rotation from the local hospital assigned to come in regularly to administer STD tests to both staff and guests, and when Marcus had casually mentioned Bellamy's idea, Nyko was over the moon about it. “Have her call me as soon as she gets here,” he said, forcing Marcus to become immediately vague about when that might possibly be.

Two days later his phone rang while he was at the gym.

“You’re out of breath,” said Abby’s amused voice. “Did you pick up the phone in the middle of fucking? I had no idea I was that special.”

“I’m on the treadmill,” Marcus laughed. “I’m not _that_ easy to distract in the middle of sex.”

“I remember,” said Abby dryly, and Marcus found himself obligated to stop the machine completely; with Abby in a teasing mood, there was a very good chance she'd say something distracting enough to cause him to fall off the machine and break an ankle. “Anyway,” she went on, “I wanted to know if the 15th through the 30th works for you. I have two weeks of vacation, but I wasn’t sure how much time you thought we’d need, or whether splitting it into two work sessions spread apart, instead of one long one, made more sense.”

Marcus paused. “Sorry,” he said, a little confused, “I’m not quite sure what -”

“The sex ed thing Bellamy called me about this morning."

“Bellamy did _what?”_

The silence that followed this was just a little too long.

“Ah,” said Abby, after a moment, with a breezy artificial laugh that didn’t fool him. “So you didn’t know. I have to say I wondered why it came from him first.”

“No, I did, I just -”

"I know you're busy, and I wouldn't want to be in the way. Especially if this is just the kids trying to _Parent Trap_ us or something, and not something you really wanted -"

“No, no, that’s not -”

“No, you’re right, it's probably easier to work remotely anyway, I'm happy to do that, I don't want Bellamy to have put you in a weird position where you have to like, un-invite me now because he went rogue without asking you -”

“Please come,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. “Please. I want to see you."

She hesitated. "Really?" she asked, in a small, uncertain voice. "Are you sure?"

"The project was Bellamy's idea, to begin with, but it's a good one, and I want to do it. I want us to do it together. But it felt like such a significant thing to ask, and I wanted to do it right. Bellamy told me I had to do it in two days or he’d call you himself. I assumed he was bluffing.”

Abby laughed again, but it was real this time, the awful moment salvaged. “Clearly he wasn’t.”

“Clearly,” Marcus agreed.

“But you really want me to come?”

"Very much. As long as you want it, too."

"I really do. I want to see what you've done with the Paradise since the last time I was there. I’m so proud of you, Marcus. Of all you’ve accomplished. I want you to show me everything.”

“You can have the best room in the house,” he promised her. “VIP treatment.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, a flicker of wicked playfulness in her voice. “I’ve been quite intrigued to check out the Red Room and the Blue Room ever since you told me about them.”

“The best lineup, just for you,” he said. “All our greatest hits.”

“The vampire thing?”

“Goddammit, I just knew you were going to bring that up. No. Categorically, _no vampires.”_

“Well, that’s a compromise I’m willing to make, in exchange for the rest of it,” she said. “I think I can live without the vampires if I get everything else I want.”

“This will be interesting,” said Marcus. “I don’t usually get to curate a concierge experience for someone I already know.”

“Don’t go crazy,” she cautioned him. “I’m a small-town doctor, Marcus. I’m a girl on a budget.”

“Not this time,” he said. “You’re coming in as a project consultant. You’re part of the team now. I’m not going to nickel and dime you over the minibar fees if you’re giving me two weeks of your time and your medical expertise. It’s on the house, and I refuse to be debated on this point.”

“My goodness,” said Abby, “I think this is about to be the most exciting business trip of my life.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus agreed,simultaneously comforted and deflated by the words "business trip."

But they were a good reminder. This was professional for both of them. For him, too, no matter what Bellamy said. It would be wonderful to see Abby again, and once she was here it would be easier to determine how to proceed, how much of himself to offer - would she want to watch him perform? Would she want him to serve as her concierge? When she said she wanted to experience everything, did that mean the rest of the staff too? Would he be limiting her experience by keeping her too much to himself? There were many factors to consider, to try and give Abby the best experience he could, to show his home to her in its best light.

It was surprising, how much he suddenly realized her opinion of the place mattered - how much it meant to hear her say she was proud of him.

 _Don't get ahead of yourself, Marcus,_ he chided himself irritably as he turned the treadmill back on.

_It's a business trip. She said so herself. Whatever you do, don't make it weird._


	12. Talis Est Dilectus Meus Et Iste Est Amicus Meus (“Such is my beloved, and he is my friend”)

**FOUR YEARS AGO**

“I’m Niylah,” said the woman, rising from the lush red velvet sofa and approaching to shake Bellamy’s hand. “I’m the therapist and intimacy coordinator here at the Paradise.”

Bellamy had been expecting someone more like Indra - someone older, seasoned, unflappable - and was surprised to realize that Niylah was probably closer to his own age. She looked somehow nothing like a therapist, and exactly like a therapist. She wore her long blonde hair in a messy braid over one shoulder, and her brown dress - made from some homespun-looking, almost hippie-ish fabric, which looked at first glance as she sat on the sofa to be a glorified kind of potato sack - revealed itself, once she rose to her feet and the fabric settled over her slim curves, to be quite expensive-looking, and effortlessly chic - especially paired with her brown leather riding boots and chunky copper-and-amber jewelry.

Bellamy’s immediate first impression was “affluent Northern California lesbian,” and he would soon learn that on all three counts he was in fact exactly right.

“Intimacy coordinator,” he repeated. “Indra mentioned something about that. I have to admit, I didn’t even know that was a job.”

Niylah did not seem offended by this. “Most people don’t,” she agreed, “though you’ll find them more and more these days on film sets, or in theatre rehearsal rooms, anytime performers are working with sex or nudity that might be outside their comfort zone. My work here is a little bit different, though. I’ll be in the room to help Marcus with your training, and then later in the week when Roan will come in to set the scene on you.”

“Set it . . . _on_ me?”

Marcus chuckled at this. “Niylah came to us from San Francisco, and likes to use fancy arts world language,” he said dryly. “She’s been trying mightily to class the place up.”

“Well, someone has to,” said the therapist cheerfully. “In the ballet world, you have choreographers - that’s the person who creates the original work - and then you have someone called a _répétiteur,_ who actually teaches the work to the dancers. If a dance company is just learning, say, Balanchine’s _Swan Lake,_ Balanchine of course isn't in the room to teach it to them -"

"Because he's dead," said Marcus helpfully. "That one I know."

"So instead, you might have a retired dancer who used to perform the work themselves and knows it very well, who travels around to dance companies and teaches the dancers the steps. Sets the work on them, so to speak.”

“Before we hired you, I did this scene with Roan periodically,” said Marcus, “and he played the role you’ll be playing; so he’ll be teaching it to you, as well as coaching you on all kinds of other things you’ll find distracting and intrusive at first, like walking around to check out sightlines and telling you things like which hand to use so you don’t have your back to the audience.”

“Stage sex is not - particularly during this phase - all that sexy,” said Niylah. “The goal, as with any performance, is that by the time you go up in front of an audience, you’re comfortable enough with the choreography and with your partner that you can disappear into the character, and make it feel real to the people who are watching you.” She pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, sat down in it, crossing her elegant legs, and gestured from the two men standing before her to the mattress. “Take a seat,” she said. “We’ll be starting slow today.”

Marcus kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the massive scarlet Gothic bed, back against the headboard, long legs stretched casually out in front of him. Something about the ordinariness of this - Marcus in his sock feet, the easy posture of a man watching late-night TV in his pajamas - made this peculiar, fantastical room seem a bit more real to Bellamy, and rather less intimidating. So he joined him, perching a little hesitantly on the edge of the mattress. He faced Niylah, which seemed like what he was supposed to do, but could feel the comforting warm presence of the other body behind him.

“The first thing I’d like to make clear,” said the woman, “is that I consider my work in this room to have all the same boundaries and parameters as any other kind of therapy session. My first priority is your safety, your comfort, and anything I can do to support you, and I take your right to privacy very seriously. Marcus does as well. Though you can either ask him to leave, or make a separate appointment with just me, anytime you ever feel you need to - which is perfectly normal, by the way, and he won’t be offended - I do think it’s important to work with you together because this is a very intimate and unusual kind of professional partnership. Sex can bring up lots of things we aren’t always expecting. It’s important that Marcus is aware of particular areas of sensitivity - things to work on, things to avoid, past trauma triggers, anything like that.” She gave Bellamy a long, steady look. “I mention this,” she went on calmly, “so you know that I am the only other person here who knows that you and Marcus had a personal, intimate encounter before you were hired.”

Bellamy flushed and stared down at the swirling red-and-gold carpet beneath his feet.

“It’s okay,” Marcus' gentle voice came from behind him. “You’re not in trouble, and you can trust Niylah to keep this confidential. I didn’t give her details,” he went on, carefully, “but I did tell her that before I asked you to take on a client or to rehearse a full scene, I thought it would be helpful to do some more . . . intensive coaching.”

There was a formality to his words - a kind of distance - that reminded Bellamy of yesterday when he’d realized he would not be permitted to kiss Marcus anymore. There were professional boundaries between them now. Because that night, in the motel, Marcus hadn’t promised anything like “coaching” or “rehearsal” or sessions with an “intimacy coordinator,” he’d promised a week of mouth against mouth and skin against skin and that he would teach Bellamy’s body how to open up and let him in for that deep, aching pleasure Bellamy yearned for but could never seem to reach.

It wasn’t supposed to be therapy. It was supposed to be a hot, wild fuck.

But Marcus had put the choice in his hands, and Bellamy had chosen this, so this was where they were.

Still, though. He felt a little wistful about the motel.

“I’m going to ask you some questions now,” said Niylah, “and they’ll feel deeply personal, and intrusive, and awkward. I want you to know that’s okay, you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and I’m not interrogating you or demanding access to your private self. I’m trying to assess where we should begin with Marcus.”

“I can’t stand being fucked,” Bellamy said bluntly, surprised at his own honesty. “I want it up until the moment that it happens, and then I just -”

“Shut down?” Niylah finished for him. He nodded. “Do you think it's possible that's a trauma response?”

“Yeah,” he said shortly. “Pretty fucking sure it is.”

“Recent?”

“No, years ago. It was my first time.”

Niylah looked at him somberly. “So you’ve never been able to enjoy sex as the receptive partner?”

“You mean bottoming.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. I mean no. I never have.”

“What about topping?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Only with men, or -”

“No, with anybody. I’ve never had problems with that.”

“And this happens even with partners that you choose willingly,” Niylah clarified. “That is, when pressure isn’t a factor, lack of attraction isn’t a factor, comfort level with the person themselves isn’t a factor. You actively want it until it happens, and then once it happens, a switch flips.”

“Exactly,” said Bellamy, relieved to hear someone else articulate it so clearly. “That’s exactly it.”

Niylah’s eyes flicked up and over his shoulder, and he realized she was looking at Marcus. “This is very common, Bellamy,” she said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s something we can definitely work on.”

Bellamy turned to him. “You were eighteen, you said. When it happened to you.”

Marcus nodded. “And I didn’t have a Niylah then. Or any therapist at all, until years later. My triggers are different from yours, but she’s helped me work through them.”

“Could you not fuck either?”

“No, it wasn’t that. Or, it hasn’t been for a long time. It was . . . other things. Details in the room.”

“It might not be a bad idea,” said Niylah gently, “if you shared some of those things with Bellamy. He’ll need to know where your tender spots are too, Marcus. It’s helpful for building trust.”

“I trust him,” said Bellamy immediately, without hesitating. He said it to Niylah, looking at her, so he missed the expression which passed over Marcus’ face behind him. But Niylah’s sharp green eyes did not.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad.” She looked up at Marcus. “Move closer, if you need to,” she said. “Anchor yourself in your breathing. We’re both right here. You are in Eden, Nevada. You are not in Amsterdam.”

Bellamy turned to look at Marcus, startled by the wave of raw emotion sweeping over the older man's face. _“Amsterdam,”_ Marcus muttered, as though the word pained him. “The Hotel Renata. There were black sheets on the bed . . . I can’t stand black sheets now . . . and he tasted like whiskey. Bad, cheap whiskey, but now it doesn’t matter, I can’t, even if it’s the good kind - The taste of it - I tasted it in my mouth . . ."

"He kissed you," said Bellamy, the picture suddenly and horribly clear in his mind. "He kissed you, and you didn't want him to, and the memory of it makes you sick. So you made a rule about kissing, to protect yourself, so you'd never have to risk triggering yourself with a client or during a scene ever again."

Marcus looked at him for a long, long time without saying anything. The silence lasted so long that it abruptly occurred to Bellamy, who'd spoken impulsively and without thinking, that this was perhaps a connection Marcus had not made consciously. It was not an unusual rule, of course, the kissing thing - some sex workers did, and some didn't - but as soon as Marcus mentioned the whiskey it made immediate sense to Bellamy why he'd made the choice he had. It was about boundaries, and professional distance, and all the things everyone had said; but it was also on some level a deeply-buried primal fear that Marcus would be transported back to the center of his worst memory and wouldn't know how to get out again.

As if aware, suddenly, that he'd been quiet for so long it was becoming noticeable, Marcus came back to himself and attempted to shake it off. “Maybe _you_ should be the therapist,” said the older man, trying for a lightness that fooled no one. Niylah regarded him attentively, as if watching to see if he would say more; but she did not intervene when Bellamy decided to throw him a lifeline and change the subject.

“So how does this process work?” he asked. “Like are we going to . . . like, do it, today? Like in front of you?”

Niylah seemed to find this amusing. “That’s _several_ steps down the line,” she said. “Don’t worry about that yet. No clothes are coming off today.”

“Okay.”

“The only exercise we’re going to do, to start with, is that I want you to learn to focus on being in your body, when someone else is there.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve seen your tape. You have a real presence, Bellamy. Indra’s instincts about you were right. When you’re alone, when you’re in relationship to the camera, so to speak, and to the people on the other side of it, you’re really quite fearless. You’re very comfortable in your own skin. I think you’re someone who, perhaps, tends to feel safer when you’re alone than you do with other people. Possibly there haven’t been a great deal of people in your life that you felt you could trust. Or who held that trust and proved worthy of it. That may be why, in moments of sexual vulnerability, you disconnect from your own body. You don’t trust the other person not to hurt you, and a part of your psyche wants you not to be there when that happens.”

Bellamy stared at her, and did not say anything for a long time.

“She’s very good,” said Marcus quietly. “And you and I are . . . more alike, I suspect, than either of us realized.”

Bellamy turned to look at him again, at that gentle, handsome face which had captivated him on sight the moment he'd seen the man walk into the bar, and wondered - for the first time, but certainly not for the last - about the hidden currents of darkness it seemed the older man was carrying, deep beneath the surface of those warm brown eyes.

_You don't trust the other person not to hurt you._

What a powerful, terrible thing to have in common.

“We’re just going to start with a breathing exercise,” said Niylah. “Take off your shoes, Bellamy, and lie down on the bed. Get comfortable. Any position you like is fine. Anything that feels relaxing.”

Still reeling a bit from hearing the woman unearth his most deeply-buried trauma so easily, Bellamy simply did as he was told. After a bit of tossing and turning he found himself lying on his side, head on the red silk pillows, lanky body shaped into an S curve, facing Niylah.

“Are you comfortable like this?” He nodded. “Good. Okay, I’m going to ask Marcus to come lie down next to you, with as much of your bodies touching as you can.”

“And then what?”

“And then you’re going to stay like that for twenty minutes and focus on your breathing.”

Bellamy looked at her. “Breathing?” he repeated skeptically. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You know he’s paying me a full day’s salary for this.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t need me to do anything except take a nap for twenty minutes?”

“If you fall asleep I’m gonna kick you in the back of the kneecap,” rumbled an amused low voice over his shoulder, and then suddenly a heavy warm body was pressed up against him, one arm draped across his chest.

“Close your eyes, Bellamy,” said Niylah, whose voice had suddenly become more meditative, hushed, soothing, and so he did.

She told him to breathe in and out, and he did.

She told him to begin at the soles of his feet, and scan his body upwards, bit by bit, towards the crown of his head, and to pause at every part where he could feel Marcus’ body touching his. 

Marcus’ hand, resting on his ribcage. 

Marcus’ knee gently nudging the back of his own. 

Marcus’ head on the pillow behind him, the sharp triangle of his nose warming the back of Bellamy's neck with its gentle breath, the whisper of his hair and beard.

Marcus’ cock, stilled in slumber, pressed gently but - Bellamy was quite sure - deliberately against his ass.

This part, clearly, was the test. But here in this bed, just like at the motel, that far-off alarm bell signaling _Run!, Danger!, This man will hurt you!,_ did not ring even once. Bellamy hadn’t felt anything but safe with Marcus. He’d _wanted_ it, all the way down to his bones, wanted to be fucked so badly he could feel the ache of it even now, and he’d been furious at the betrayal of his own body when he _still_ couldn’t make it work.

But it would. It _would._ Because Marcus had promised him, and Marcus wouldn’t lie.

Marcus, who saw people inside all the layers underneath which they were trying to hide, who had pulled away immediately the instant he’d sensed something wrong, his own pleasure utterly secondary to the desperate need to make sure Bellamy was okay.

If anyone could teach him, Marcus could.

Behind him, the other man shifted, moving closer, and his head dropped lower to rest against Bellamy’s shoulder. 

“Good, Marcus,” murmured Niylah. “You can let go. You don’t have to protect him. I’m right here, and you’re both safe. You can allow yourself to receive comfort, too.”

Bellamy did not ask about this, and neither Marcus nor Niylah said anything more about it for the rest of the session. But he wondered about it, as they lay together on that red satin bed, and he wondered about it as a gentle alarm pinged on Niylah’s phone and she rose from her seat to shake his hand again and dismiss them, and he wondered about it as he made his way down the hall in his sock feet back to his room, and he did not stop wondering about it until late, late, late that night, when his mind finally shut down, and he collapsed into sleep.

* * * * *

The next day was similar, except that Niylah asked them both to strip down to just their underwear. But once again, all they did was lie there and breathe for twenty minutes, as Bellamy obediently scanned his body from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, marking every place on his skin where he could feel Marcus touching him. 

The third day they did the same, only now they were both naked.

Bellamy had expected it to be wildly uncomfortable to have another clothed person in the room, as he lay on the bed with Marcus’ warm body pressed up against his; but Niylah was a surprisingly soothing presence. She was entirely unfazed by their bodies, even by their cocks, and she talked about them with the same kind of thoughtful, exploratory tone of analysis she brought to everything else.

“Bellamy, can you feel Marcus’ cock getting harder against your skin?”

“Yes.”

“What do you notice? Does that change how your body feels?”

“No.”

“Do you feel unsafe at all?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s very good.” She paused to make some quiet notes on her clipboard. “So the trauma response isn’t tied to all physical contact between his cock and your body. It’s connected to a very specific kind of contact that your body has trained itself to react to with a fight-or-flight response. This is good, Bellamy. We’re all learning a lot here.”

The next four days were when the dynamic changed, very decidedly. Bellamy arrived to find Niylah laying out a truly staggering array of devices on the bedside table. “We’re going to start doing some longer sessions for the rest of the week,” she said, “and they’ll be quite a bit more intensive.”

“Yeah,” said Bellamy, swallowing hard as his eyes raked over the selection of plugs, vibrators and dildos she had brought with her.

“Hospital-grade sterilization,” she said, misinterpreting his worried expression. “Safe as can be, I promise. We’re going to do some experimenting, to see if your body responds the same to penetration when it isn’t a human cock attached to a human body. Have you ever used anything like one of these before?”

Bellamy had not, but was spared from fumbling out an answer by Marcus’ entrance behind him. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he began, and Bellamy turned to watch Marcus attempt to shrug out of his coat without setting down his cup of coffee. “All my meetings ran long today, and I had to . . . “ He trailed off, frozen, half in and half out of his coat, his eyes drifting over to the table and taking in its contents. “Oh,” he said quietly. “I thought . . . we’d discussed not starting on that until next week.”

“We’re much farther ahead than I’d thought,” said Niylah easily. “He’s doing extremely well. I thought we’d do a longer session today, beginning with hands and tongue, and then moving on to the smallest of the silicon plugs. Do the two of you have a safe word?”

This was the first moment in the whole process where Bellamy finally began to feel, just a little bit, as though he was losing his mind.

_“Beginning with hands and tongue.”_

He was going to lay here, on this bed, while Marcus licked him and kissed him and worked him open with his fingers, and there was absolutely no way he could do that without coming all over this bed, in front of Niylah, and the fact that Niylah was so clearly comfortable with that fact - there were different sheets on the red bed today, there were boxes of cleansing wipes and tissues sitting on the bedside table, and she’d pulled her regular seat a few feet further away from the bed - was too much for him to handle at the moment.

“Hey,” said Marcus gently, setting down his coffee and making his way over to Bellamy, putting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “Hey. Bellamy. Look at me. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine."

“Never tell me you’re fine if you’re not fine,” Marcus told him firmly. “It’s important that we be able to talk to each other.”

Bellamy shook it off. “I really am fine,” he promised the other man. “Sorry. I just . . . the leap from yesterday to today was . . . farther than I was expecting.”

“We don’t have to -”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. I can do it.”

“We’ll come up with a safe word,” said Marcus, “just so you have it in case you need it.”

“‘Elias,’” said Bellamy immediately, which brought a flicker of some emotion into Marcus' eyes that Bellamy wasn't sure he could read.

“Elias,” he agreed, after a slightly-too-long pause. “Promise me you’ll use it if you need it.”

But Bellamy didn’t need it.

For the next four days, he read books, went for walks, unpacked, made trips to the Walmart two towns over with Harper and Octavia in the pickup truck to buy sheets and towels and lamps for his room, broke the lease on his Wyoming apartment and arranged for all his possessions to be shipped, watched basketball games with Nate and Raven, filled out health insurance paperwork with Indra, settled into his new future home . . . and spent two hours of every afternoon writhing and sweating and practically screaming with pleasure as Marcus introduced his ass to an ever-expanding menu of new pleasures.

The panic alarm did not go off when Marcus’ tongue or fingers gently teased his entrance open, and it did not go off for any of the silicon plugs, and it did not go off when they graduated to the vibrator with the gently curved tip to caress Bellamy’s prostate, and it did not go off when they had finally graduated to the sleek purple silicon dildo which, Niylah calmly explained, was almost exactly the circumference of Marcus’ own cock, which meant that the alarm had actually nothing to do with size or girth or the sensation of being stretched open or anything which a non-human device could replicate.

“Good, Bellamy,” Niylah always said, approving and encouraging and warm. “That’s very, very good.”

He could always tell what Niylah was thinking.

Marcus, however, he could not read at all.

Some of that was inevitable, of course; they had settled early on, during that first day of experimentation, on a position with Bellamy on all fours, but supported with a mountain of bolsters and pillows beneath his torso, to bear his weight. This allowed him to be comfortably open to Marcus, kneeling behind him, with no strain on his knees or wrists, and to feel almost relaxed; but it also meant, of course, that Marcus’ face was miles away, and it was impossible to know what he was thinking or feeling, because he did not say anything at all.

But his touches were deft, expert, tender, sometimes very close to a caress, and even though Bellamy could not see him, it was impossible to forget he was there. It was impossible to forget that it was Marcus touching him, Marcus wielding the silicon devices, Marcus’ fingertips and beard and tongue.

Bellamy came every time - sometimes more than once, depending on how long the session - but by the time he returned to himself at the end of the session, ready to clean himself up and get dressed again, Marcus, puzzlingly, was always gone.

Niylah did not seem surprised or bothered by this, but she also did not address it, talking Bellamy through aftercare and checking in herself to see how he was feeling.

It was not until the beginning of their second week - after a particularly vigorous session with the largest of the dildos ended with a shattered, blissed-out Bellamy collapsing against the mattress in exhausted pleasure - that he finally figured it out.

Niylah had to leave a few minutes early that day, to meet a client in the little cottage at the back of the property which she and her partner Luna used as their wellness studio. Marcus was, as always, gone by the time Bellamy roused himself from the bed, but didn’t want to make Niylah late, and she was the one who had to lock up. So instead of giving himself a thorough cleaning there in the room, and then getting dressed, he simply picked up the pack of wipes and all his clothes in a heap, and headed for the green room to clean up there, waving Niylah goodbye as she hit the lights and locked the theatre door.

The minute he stepped into the green room, the mystery of Marcus’ swift disappearances became excruciatingly clear.

The green room was a large, lounge-like space which connected the Paradise’s two smaller theatres, and served as a kind of backstage hangout before and between performances. In addition to a low wall of lit makeup mirrors for each performer and a wall of wardrobe racks where everyone’s costumes lived, there was also a large unisex bathroom with four stalls and two showers.

One of which was running.

With _extremely_ recognizable sounds coming from it.

With a hot, red, guilty flush sweeping his cheeks, Bellamy set his clothes down silently on one of the couches and made his way to the open bathroom door.

This was, of course, an unspeakable violation. No one was scheduled to be in either theatre for another three hours, and Marcus had clearly heard Niylah lock the door and leave. He must have thought he was completely alone, and there was no shame in what he was doing; after all, he’d spent the past two hours making Bellamy come, without the opportunity to do so himself. This was perfectly normal. Healthy. Human. Bellamy should leave right now, and let him have his privacy.

But he couldn’t, because he realized the minute his bare feet touched the cool white tile, that Marcus had only closed the shower curtain halfway, and from this angle, Bellamy could see straight inside it.

Marcus stood with one hand planted on the white tile wall, hot water streaming down over his bowed head, steam swirling around him. He was not merely taking the edge off, Bellamy realized, getting rid of an inconvenient hard-on so he could go back up to work and continue with his day. He was fucking himself, with his whole body, his shoulders trembling, his powerful back muscles flexing, his arms hard and taut and screaming with a physical tension Bellamy could almost feel, and the hand that was moving rapidly up and down on that thick, massive cock - now flushed a hot red-purple and glistening with both water and precum - was gripping it with an overwhelming strength.

The sounds he made were rough, animal groans, choked and furious and closer to cries of pain than to the soft, gentle sounds of pleasure he’d made that night at the motel. 

Bellamy had not realized, until this moment, just how much _force_ was contained inside Marcus Kane’s big, powerful body, or how much work it must take to hold himself in check. He'd watched him perform with Harper one night, and Nate another, both of whom he dwarfed in size, and both of whom he’d appeared - from the distance between Bellamy’s seat and the stage - to be fucking quite hard. But that was all choreography, he realized. This was real, and raw, and almost savage, and if Bellamy hadn’t just come so hard he still felt a little lightheaded, there was a real chance his cock would spring back to life again.

It did not matter how loudly the sane voice inside his mind screamed at him that this was dangerous and disrespectful and probably an HR violation, that if Marcus turned around he would rightly be furious and humiliated by this invasion of his privacy. He heard the voice, and he didn’t disagree with it, but he also knew that he could not tear his eyes away from the sight of that big strong hand jerking that thick red cock as Marcus grunted and roared like a wild animal.

When he came, striping the white shower wall over and over and over again, something inside him seemed to collapse, and for a long moment, before collecting himself to rinse off both his body and the shower wall, he simply . . . stood, motionless, forehead pressed against the white tile, breathing hard, shoulders trembling, and it occurred to Bellamy in horror that there was a better-than-zero chance that he was crying.

This, finally, was enough to wake him up, and drive him out of the bathroom. Masturbation was one thing, but this was a violation Marcus wouldn’t forgive.

This was something Bellamy knew he was not supposed to see.

He bolted back out to the green room, gave his body the swiftest and most perfunctory cleanup possible, tossing the pack of wipes on the dressing room counter, and threw his clothes back on as fast as he could, not bothering with his socks or shoes in his haste to escape out the side door which led to the hallway. But as he darted across the carpet towards the exit, the worst imaginable thing happened:

He collided with Marcus, just stepping out of the bathroom, shirtless, one towel wrapped around his waist as he dried off his hair with another, and very, very clearly not expecting to see anyone else in the room.

It all happened very quickly.

Marcus looked him up and down, taking it all in – Bellamy's flushed cheeks and lack of eye contact, his panicked haste, the fact that he was tiptoeing out to the hallway with his shoes in his hand – and Bellamy could do nothing except stand there, miserably and helplessly, as he watched the older man figure out exactly what had happened.

He waited for a long silent moment for Marcus to speak, so he could ascertain exactly how much trouble he was in.

But Marcus didn’t yell at him. He just stood there, breathing hard, before taking one long step which brought him so close to the younger man that he could have bent his head and kissed him.

“Marcus,” Bellamy said awkwardly, fumbling for an apology, but Marcus silenced him with a look.

“I swear to God, Bellamy,” he said roughly, and there was something in his voice Bellamy could not identify – something weary, almost helpless, as though _Marcus_ was the one here with something to apologize for. “I am doing the best I can.”

Then, before Bellamy could say anything to this extraordinarily unexpected remark, Marcus turned on his heel and left the room.

When he arrived the next day and found Roan sitting beside Niylah, with no Marcus to be found, Bellamy was not even surprised.

* * * * *

“He hasn’t signed the paperwork yet,” said Niylah, sitting back on her couch and regarding the man in the armchair across from her with an expression that was both empathetic and stern. “He knew this was a possibility from the beginning. The two-week training period is designed to leave flexibility on both ends. Whether he decides it’s not a good fit, or we do.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow at her. “I haven’t decided that at all,” he replied. “So I don’t quite know why you called me in here.”

 _“I’ve_ decided. I think you need to let Bellamy go.”

“No,” said Marcus immediately, a little too quickly and a little too insistently, neither of which were lost on his therapist. “No,” he said again, striving for a more even, professional tone, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Are you aware,” asked Niylah, “of just how unusual your behavior is with him compared to everybody else?”

“I don’t think any of this is as dramatic as you’re making it sound.”

“Then answer me one question. Why did you leave after the last four sessions to go masturbate in private?”

Marcus flushed slightly. “Niylah, I recognize that as a therapist for sex workers there aren’t very few topics that are off-limits,” he said, a little irritably, “but surely even for you, that’s an unnecessarily personal question.”

“It shouldn’t be personal,” she retorted. “That’s my _point._ You don’t do this when it’s anyone else. When it was Roan, for example, being trained with the anal toys. Or when we did staging rehearsals with Raven where there was just choreography and no sex. You’ve been in professional situations many, many times where by the end you’re aroused but you haven’t come. It’s rarely something anyone feels the need to leave the room for. The body responds to stimuli, and if the session doesn’t end with a physical relief of those responses, it’s annoying and inconvenient. Everyone handles it differently. But I can name half a dozen occasions when you were with Roan, or Nate, and you both just sat there casually on the bed and finished yourselves off while talking about a football game or the city council elections. Because _it wasn’t personal._ So can you understand why I find it concerning that it’s not something you want Bellamy to see?”

“No,” he said. “I honestly don’t.”

Niylah sighed. “You’re going to force me to be quite a bit more blunt and crude about this than I’d wanted to be,” she cautioned him. “I did give you a chance.”

“I’m difficult to shock, Niylah.”

“The difference between Bellamy and Nate,” she said, “is that jerking off with Nate is scratching an itch. It has no more emotional weight than a pair of athletes doing cool-down stretches in the locker room after a game. It has actually nothing to do with Nate as a person. But you have to leave the room to relieve yourself after being with Bellamy because _it’s about Bellamy._ You’re aroused by him, you’re sexually attracted to him, you have feelings for him, you’re fantasizing about him, and when you disappear into the green room showers to masturbate, you’re thinking about _him specifically._ He is entirely too emotionally present, which means you cannot be neutral about him, and if I’ve figured this out, it means he eventually will too. Not once in all the time I’ve worked for you, Marcus, has a basic and straightforward question about masturbation been _too personal_ to answer. I think you gave away quite a bit more, just now, than you might have intended to.”

There was, of course, absolutely nothing he could possibly say in response to this, so he said nothing. He sat in Niylah’s cozy leather armchair, staring down at the carpet beneath his feet, distracting himself by trying to decide whether he liked it or hated it. Luna had taken the lead on decorating when they’d moved into this cottage, and the front room which Niylah used as her counseling office was done in soothing neutrals, brown leather and pale blue walls and a spare open bookshelf with a carefully-curated handful of books, knicknacks, crystals, and statuary. The carpet looked like it had been woven by hand, because Niylah and Luna seemed like the kind of people with friends who just casually owned looms, and the tangled swirl of blues and reds and greens felt like it should have been tacky, but somehow it worked, the one bold splash of color in the whole room. 

Maybe it wasn’t a simple yes or no, of course. Maybe a rug could be weird and ugly but still be the perfect rug for a particular space. Maybe there were no easy answers to anything.

“You need to let him go, Marcus,” said Niylah gently, after the silence had gone on for so long he’d begun to forget she was there.

He looked up at her, dark eyes weary, and shook his head. “No,” he said, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Niylah. I can’t. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m not saying it’s a wise or sound decision. Whatever the consequences are, I’ll take them on myself. I will find a way to make this work. But I can’t send him away. He’s been searching for a home like this his whole life. He deserves to have that. I can’t take it away from him just because I’m . . . struggling, a bit, at present, to manage an irresponsible teenage infatuation, which I already know isn’t and won’t be reciprocated. I’m not my best self right now, and I acknowledge that. I just need a few days of breathing room. Keep working him with Roan. I’ll be fine by Thursday.”

“You’re supposed to have penetrative sex with him on Thursday,” she pointed out. “Roan can take him through the choreography with clothes on, and mark it, but he needs to be able to run a full rehearsal with you Friday and Saturday. Which means we need Thursday for -”

“I know.”

“Whatever emotional distance you think you can get from him by swapping in Roan for three days is going to evaporate the minute you’re actually inside him,” said Niylah bluntly, “and I think you know that. Even with work sex, even when it’s choreographed, even when this is what we all do for a living, people can still get hurt.”

“I’m not going to do anything that would hurt Bellamy. I promise, I'm being extremely careful about that.”

Niylah rubbed her temples wearily. “Marcus,” she said pointedly. _“I wasn’t talking about him.”_

Marcus looked away, and did not say anything for a long time.

Finally she sighed, rose to her feet, made her way over to the door, and opened it to usher him out. “You have my recommendation,” she said. “It’s my job to tell you these things, even when you don’t want to hear them. You know what I think you should do. Where you go from here is your choice. Take a few days if you need to, Roan has it under control, and I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said back, stepping out of the studio onto the brick path which led back through the gardens to the main building.

“Marcus,” she said, and he turned back to look at her, a curious sensation skittering up his spine . . . like premonition, or foreboding. Like something had been set in motion it was now too late to stop.

She stood silently for a long moment, leaning in the doorway, framed by dark wood and white stucco and climbing vines of bougainvillea, blonde hair in a loose braid over her shoulder like a beam of sunlight against the cool blue of her dress, regarding him with something worried and sad in her bright green eyes, and it suddenly dawned on him what she reminded him of. She was like some modern California version of a witch standing at the threshold of her forest cottage, surrounded by wildflowers and holding his future in her graceful hands. She had prophesied to Marcus that Bellamy would break his heart, and here he was, like every idiot in every fairy tale, waving away her warnings as nonsense and going off to do what he was going to do anyway.

But it would be fine. He would be fine. He could do this. He just needed three days. Just a little bit of distance, a little bit of room to breathe, a little bit of - if he was being honest - avoiding Bellamy, and by Thursday he would be himself again.

He would have to be.

"Please, just be careful," was all she finally said.

* * * * *

“What are you two cackling about?” Nate demanded, throwing a makeup sponge over to the dressing room tables where Harper and Raven were sitting with their heads close together, whispering and giggling.

“We’re having a concealer emergency,” said Harper. “Beard burn and bruises all around.”

Nate hooted with laughter. “Damn! You too?”

Octavia and Bellamy, who were playing gin rummy on the other sofa, looked up at this. “Wait, what’s going on?” Octavia demanded.

“Boss is in a _mood_ this week,” said Raven. 

“Really? He’s been perfectly nice to me.”

“It’s not that he’s being . . . not nice,” said Harper, causing Raven to elbow her and then they both burst into giggles again.

“Yeah,” said Raven, “it’s more like he’s being . . . _unusually_ nice.”

“Like so nice I had to get out the foam roller this morning,” said Harper.

“So nice I think he fucked up my back,” agreed Nate.

Bellamy felt his cheeks flush hot red, and he busied himself with staring down at his cards to avoid drawing Octavia’s eye. But she wasn’t paying any attention to him.

“Wait, so what happened?” she demanded. “Is he going off-script or something? Did he fuck up the choreography? Did someone get hurt? That’s not like him.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Harper assured her. “It’s just . . . I don’t quite know how to explain it . . .”

“Are we talking about Kane?” asked Roan, striding into the green room just then and hanging up his coat on the rack. “We got a room full of sore asses this week, do we?”

“Word,” said Raven fervently.

“Harper’s got beard burn,” said Nate.

“I _still_ don’t know what you’re all talking about,” said Octavia hotly. “And look. You’re gonna scare off the new kid. He’s gonna have to fuck Marcus more than the rest of you combined, so don’t freak him out.”

“Oh no, he _is_ freaking out!” Harper exclaimed, suddenly noticing Bellamy’s reddened cheeks and the tension in his body. “Don’t freak out, new kid. I promise, he’s not normally like this. He’s having a weird off week. He’s usually like . . . the nicest and kindest and gentlest partner in the whole world.”

“He really is,” Raven agreed. “Like always checks in, makes sure you’re okay, super comfortable. He’s just . . . I don’t know. Just _really fucking intense,_ all of a sudden. And I don’t know why.”

“Intense how?” asked Octavia, wrinkling her nose a little, as if braced for an answer which would contain more information than she wanted.

“I mean a one-orgasm scene became a four-orgasm scene,” said Harper.

“Fuck you,” said Raven, kicking her, “I only got two.”

“Well, there’s no oral in yours.”

“Which is why I don’t have beard burn.”

“I had to go straight to Luna after ours,” said Roan. “I was just like, ‘I need you to fix my ass or I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow.’”

“So that’s it?” said Octavia. “He’s just fucking everyone a little harder than usual and you’re suddenly all complaining?”

“No one’s _complaining,”_ said Nate. “We’re just saying, after someone's dicked you down five or six dozen times, you know them pretty well. And there’s something up with him this week. Something new.”

“It’s different for you,” Raven explained to Octavia. “You guys have a whole separate kind of relationship.”

“Oh, so you’re saying that because I don’t have sex with Marcus, that I don’t know him as well as you do?”

“Easy,” said Roan, stepping in between them and holding out his hands. “No fighting in front of the new kid. He’s still on probation, remember. He could still back out if we scare him away.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Bellamy. “And I’m not worried about Marcus.”

“How has he been in training with you?” asked Harper curiously. “You’ve been working with him this week, right?”

“We worked together for a few days, and then Roan took over,” said Bellamy, a little evasively. “I think we’ll be together again tomorrow, and for the rest of the week.”

“Did he seem okay?”

Bellamy had no idea how to answer this. “I don’t . . . know him that well yet,” he finally said, a little awkwardly. “But no, whatever this is, what you guys are talking about - he wasn’t doing that in the room with me.”

 _He was doing it afterwards, in the showers._ _But apparently it wasn’t enough._

“He really is the best,” Harper said reassuringly, misinterpreting his hesitation and discomfort. “We tease him a lot, because we love him, but you won’t find a better boss. I really do hope you stay.”

Bellamy tried for a lighter, more casual tone, to avoid giving anything away. “Well, I think we’re supposed to have our first real fuck tomorrow,” he said, “so if I end up on Luna’s table covered in bruises I’ll let you guys know.”

It worked. They all laughed, even Octavia, and the tension was broken, and soon the conversation had moved on. But Bellamy could not stop thinking about it.

Why had Marcus been so gentle, so careful, so tender with him, when it seemed that everywhere else - whether alone in the showers or during a scene - he was losing some kind of internal battle to maintain control of himself?

Which of all these Marcus Kanes would be the one who would show up to the Red Room tomorrow, and would Bellamy’s body let him in? Would he be the next one laughingly describing his sore muscles in the green room after an intense, spectacular fuck? Or would the darkness which always found a way to seep its way in between Bellamy and every man he’d ever genuinely wanted rear its head again, and ruin it all?

It was impossible to know, but just as impossible to stop thinking about it.

* * * * *

But before he was anything else, Marcus Kane was a professional, and when he arrived on Thursday, he was ready.

The room looked different, when Bellamy entered, and it took him a moment to place it. Niylah was still sitting on the same sofa as before, but it had been moved all the way to the far wall, putting at least fifteen or twenty feet between her and the bed, to which she usually sat so close that her knees brushed against the heavy draperies.

“Marcus is in the green room, undressing,” she said. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling about today, Bellamy?” she asked, as he kicked off his shoes and unzipped his jeans.

“Okay, I think.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“That’s perfectly normal.”

“How come you’re way over there today?” he asked. “That’s not where you usually sit.”

Niylah smiled. “You’re a very intuitive person, Bellamy,” she said. “You tell me why you think I’m sitting over here today.”

Bellamy thought about it, pulling his shirt over his head and carrying his clothes over to set them down on a nearby chair before tugging off his boxer briefs to set on top of the pile. “Is it because you want me to start getting used to forgetting there’s someone else in the room?” he suggested. “Because that’s closer to the distance of the actual audience during a real scene?”

“That’s half of it, yes. Very good.”

“What’s the other half?”

Niylah didn’t answer, but smiled at him with an encouraging-teacher gesture, waiting patiently to see what he’d say.

“Is it . . .” he began, then paused, looking over at the bed - imagining it under the sultry amber glow of the stage lights, the quiet murmur of anticipation from the audience, the hush before the performers walked out into the darkness and the scene began, the way it had been the night he’d watched Marcus in here with Harper. 

_Oh._

“It’s because you won’t be here, when we do it for real,” he said, looking up at her. “We’ll only be able to rely on each other, so we have to figure out how to communicate things without you to translate for us.”

“Very good,” she said approvingly. “That’s exactly it.”

“So a lot of things will be different today.”

“Everything will be different today,” said Marcus, stepping out of the green room, naked and serious and beautiful, and even though his tone was perfectly ordinary there was so much gravity in his words that Bellamy could not quite look away, and caught himself staring for longer than he should have before Niylah’s voice pulled him back to himself.

“I’m not going to talk as much today,” said Niylah. “I want the two of you to focus on connecting with each other. You’ve been doing really well with the choreography, Bellamy, but we aren’t actually going to worry about that today. This won’t be a scene. This is purely about exploring where the boundaries of your body are, and if you feel ready to try moving onto the next step. So you’re in control of the process. You tell Marcus what you want and don’t want, you set the pace, you ask for whatever you need.”

Bellamy swallowed hard, and nodded, watching Marcus arrange sheets and pillows and bolsters and condoms and lube, trying not to get too distracted by the flex and release of the powerful muscles in his arms and back and ass, trying not to think too much about Roan and Nate and Raven and Harper spending the last few days getting fucked so hard that Luna’s intervention was required so they could walk the next day.

“Bellamy,” said Niylah. “Would you feel more comfortable if Marcus made you come before he begins, so you’re more relaxed, or would you enjoy it more if he finishes you off at the end?”

_I want to be hard when he fucks me, like I was when it was real. I want to close my eyes and be back in that motel room. I want to know how he wanted it to feel then._

“At the end,” he managed to say, climbing up onto the bed and letting Marcus - who still wasn’t really, truly looking at him yet - arrange his body for maximum comfort. A bolster under his lower back, one under his ass, and two larger wedge-shaped ones to support his bent knees, holding him open.

“Tell Marcus was the safe word is,” said Niylah, “so he knows you remember that you can use it any time you need.”

“Elias,” said Bellamy.

“Very good. Marcus is going to watch you carefully - that’s why you’ll be on your back today, which during scenes you mostly won’t be - the sightlines aren’t as good for the audience. But I want to make sure that he can check in, so if anything happens, if you feel yourself disconnecting again, he’ll know.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay, I’ll stop talking now,” said Niylah, pulling out her clipboard. “But I’ll be right here, if you need me. Don’t look at me, if you feel yourself starting to drift. Look to Marcus, and connect with him. Just come back to your breathing, if you need to, and remember that you’re safe.”

Marcus looked down at him then, meeting his gaze directly for the first time, and knelt at the edge of the bed, his head only a few inches from Bellamy’s own. “You’re safe,” he repeated, eyes warm and serious. “You’ll always be safe with me.”

“I know,” said Bellamy. “I trust you.”

Marcus nodded at this, resting a gentle hand on Bellamy’s chest, giving him one last, long look, before departing to take up his position at the foot of the bed, between the younger man’s bent knees. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” said Bellamy, and that was the last coherent thing he said for a long, long time.

Whoever the Marcus Kane was who devoured Harper’s cunt so hard she needed to put concealer on her thighs, who had pounded into Roan’s ass with such relentlessness that he needed an emergency post-fuck massage . . . that Marcus Kane was nowhere to be found. His fingers were impossibly gentle, tender, and deft as he worked Bellamy open, preparing him, caressing him, reassuring him. He’d learned a great deal from observation over the past week about how Bellamy liked to be touched - things Bellamy hadn’t said out loud, but Marcus had just figured out anyway. Everything he did was perfect. Bellamy could feel his cock begin stirring to life almost immediately, roused by the sheer decadent pleasure of warm, slick hands against his skin, loosening every tense muscle, making his body melt into the mattress beneath him. From time to time Marcus would murmur a quiet “like this?” or “is this okay?”, to which Bellamy could only respond with blissful, mumbling grunts of pleasure, inarticulate sounds that contained no real words but always meant _yes._

They stayed there for so long that the sensation of warm, loose, relaxed yearning spread through Bellamy’s whole body, making him feel heavy and soft and open, and just as he began to struggle to consciously form the words “I’m ready,” he felt Marcus’ hands pull away and heard the soft snap of a condom being rolled on, and then it was happening.

Marcus positioned himself between Bellamy’s thighs, and lowered his body so their chests rose and fell against each other. He was iron-hard against Bellamy’s skin, and even through the haze of pleasure permeating his body Bellamy was struck by this: that Marcus required no time, not even any touching, to be ready. That he was hard enough to fuck, just from touching Bellamy.

“I’m right here,” said Marcus softly, one hand sliding down between their bodies to grip the base of his own cock, the other braced beside Bellamy’s head. “How do you feel?”

“Really good,” said Bellamy, which made the older man smile.

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

Marcus moved a little closer, gently nudging the head of his cock against the opening between Bellamy’s thighs, his gaze still locked on the younger man’s face. “How about now?” he whispered hoarsely. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” said Bellamy.

He did it again, harder this time, not just a light tap but a slightly firmer push. No penetration, but definite pressure.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Marcus whispered. “I’m going to -”

 _“Yes,”_ said Bellamy, something almost pleading in his voice, and Marcus’ whole face softened, the look of intense focus and attention melting into something that erased the whole world around them. Niylah was gone, the Red Room was gone, they were back in the motel, it was just the two of them, and Bellamy was not afraid of anything.

He had not disappeared, or shut down from his body. On the contrary, he could see everything. He could feel everything. The hard point of Marcus’ nipple against his chest. The hair on Marcus’ thighs delicately brushing his own. The scent of his cologne, something light and crisp and green and just a little bit spicy. He’d put it on his wrists and his throat; that was where Bellamy could smell it most strongly. And underneath that, sweat and soap and something deep and primal and male that made Bellamy feel almost dizzy. There was no fear in his body, only a restless, hungry yearning, along with a kind of passionate curiosity. Would it feel as good as he wanted it to feel? Would it be anticlimactic, would he realize all along he hadn’t been missing that much? Would it hurt? Would he hate it? Would it turn out that he just wasn’t someone who liked how this felt? Or would he -

Oh.

_Oh._

The head of Marcus’ cock was thick, and no amount of lube could entirely eliminate the pressure of friction as it stretched him open. He gasped aloud, and felt Marcus instantly freeze atop him, but he shook his head frantically. “No,” he whispered, “no, it’s okay, it's okay . . . more . . .”

A radiant smile lit up the older man’s face, like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. “You’re all right?” he whispered, voice bright with eagerness and hope. Bellamy nodded. “You’re still with me?”

“Yes. Yeah. Yes. I'm right here.”

“Stay with me,” the older man said gently, one hand gripping his cock to guide it in another fraction of an inch as the other cradled Bellamy’s jaw. “Look at me.”

As though Bellamy could fix his gaze anywhere else.

Marcus was beautiful, like this, face flushed, hair disheveled, eyes dark with some heady mixture of desire and protectiveness. As he edged in deeper, and then deeper, gentle little pushes that gave Bellamy time to get used to the new feeling bit by bit, he began to notice things he’d never noticed before, in bed with anyone. Disconnecting from his own body meant he’d never connected with his partner’s, either. So it was all new and full of wonder to him, the way each careful thrust of Marcus’ cock was accompanied by a soft sound, between a grunt and a sigh, which made Bellamy shiver. The way the heat turning his cheeks pink also swept down his neck and chest. The furrow of his brow, the faint droplets of sweat beading at his temples, the sense that he contained an absolutely vast ocean of power and was holding it forcibly at bay with enormous effort. That sense of a tidal wave building up behind a dam would be frightening in the body of any other person; but Marcus Kane would never, ever hurt him. Not for any reason. Not ever.

 _You are safe with me, Bellamy,_ Marcus had said to him the very first night they met, and in a life full of betrayals and lies it was one of the few things in the world that Bellamy had known, the instant he heard it, was absolutely true.

“So good,” he whispered, voice coming out in a ragged, choked, broken gasp as Marcus moved deeper and deeper inside him. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know it could be so good . . .”

Marcus beamed down at him, warm brown eyes incandescent with joy. “I’m so glad,” he murmured. “Stay with me. Just like this. Stay with me.”

And Bellamy did.

He stayed with Marcus, their eyes locked on each other, as Marcus’ thick cock pressed in further and further, and even when the pressure grew so intense that he hissed a sharp, forceful inhale, it was only the ordinary pain/pleasure of his body accommodating to this strange new sensation, and there was no fear in it at all.

The darkness could not enter here, into this space with the gentle blonde lesbian on the sofa with her clipboard, the light scritch-scratch of her pen as she wrote notes. It could not enter this red satin bed, where workers who liked their jobs and were paid and treated well performed for enthusiastic, sex-positive crowds, because Marcus Kane had taken the sordid, hostile, aggressively heteronormative establishment his father built and turned it into a place of real community and delight. 

And it could not enter into the space between his body and Marcus Kane’s, where they lay pressed together, warm skin against warm skin, breath against breath, Bellamy’s stunned gasps entwining with Marcus’ low rumbling moans, because this was somehow the safest place in the whole world. Because with Marcus inside him, there was no room for ghosts anymore. There were no empty places for them to hide. He was full - of warmth, pleasure, affection - where before he had been cavernous and hollow and alone.

Time passed, somehow; Bellamy had no idea how much. He felt like he could live here forever, cradled with infinite tenderness beneath this massive, powerful body, as Marcus’ thick cock glided firmly in and out of him, over and over and over again. He felt the ache of a rising climax begin deep in his bones, more than once, but Marcus always knew exactly when to pause, or slow, or halt altogether, to let the heat fade just a little before resuming.

 _It must be killing him,_ a distant part of Bellamy’s mind observed, thinking about the animal ferocity he’d witnessed in that shower and comparing it to the utterly herculean restraint of the man fucking him now, the strain in every muscle and tendon of his body to hold his colossal power in check, to make sure he gave Bellamy only as much as he could take and not a fraction more.

“Are you close?” Bellamy asked finally, and Marcus gave a choked laugh.

“I’ve been close for a _while,”_ he whispered, a flicker of wry humor in his voice. “I just didn’t want your first time to be over in three minutes.” He brushed Bellamy’s cheek with his fingertips. “In a scene, I would pull out now, to take off the condom and give the audience a better view,” he said. “They like to watch us finish. But Niylah said, this time, if it was okay with you -”

Bellamy nodded eagerly. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t pull out. Stay here.”

And as Marcus’s cock began to twitch and pulse inside him, Bellamy felt something deep within his chest expand and expand and expand, like a balloon filling with air, rising up through his skin and floating away, carrying with it that hard, cold, gray weight he’d been carrying at his center for years.

_Your first time._

It wasn’t, really, but also - wasn’t it?

Wasn’t that for _him_ to decide, if he chose? Couldn’t this be a fresh start - for sex, for family, for everything, here in this beautiful garden in the middle of the desert where he had nothing to run away from anymore? Couldn’t he just let the past dissolve, like sand, and forget all the years of bad sex in cold beds, all the years of running and disappearing and loneliness and pain, and rewrite his own history so none of it could hurt him?

This would be his first time, he vowed to himself. Forever afterwards. The first time he _mattered_ to the other person. The first time he’d experienced real pleasure, pleasure that shook him down to the marrow of his bones. The first time it had felt the way it was supposed to feel, because someone had been paying attention, someone had _seen_ him, someone who was willing to sweat and strain and practically torture himself to keep his raw animal side in check, to make sure that Bellamy felt cherished and safe.

“May I?” Marcus asked softly, his fingertips brushing Bellamy’s cock, and Bellamy nodded with something like desperation as that deft, strong hand began to move up and down. He was not edging them anymore, they’d reached the summit and were both ready to tumble over it, so everything was firmer, more purposeful, more intense. As Bellamy's orgasm began to swell up inside him for the final time, he could not tear his eyes away from Marcus, who was gazing down at him almost greedily, like he’d wanted nothing more than this, like watching Bellamy's pleasure was enough to sate his own. “That’s good,” Marcus murmured over and over again. “Good, Bellamy. I can feel you. I can feel how close you are. Let it all go, for me. Let everything go. Let me take it all.”

And just like _“your first time,”_ he meant something more - something deeper - than just what was happening to their bodies, he meant more than just the burst of hot wetness which exploded out of Bellamy with such force that he clutched frantically at Marcus’ back, fingers digging into his shoulderblades in a desperate, fervent embrace, pulling him down against his own body until the older man’s head was buried against his throat, holding him there like he was drowning and Marcus was the only solid thing in all the world.

_Let everything go. Let me take it all._

Bellamy shuddered and gasped with the volcanic force of sheer, blissful, overwhelming release, a feeling that was so much more than physical, and could not bring himself to let go of Marcus even as he came and came and came. One hand stayed hot and urgent against the notches of Marcus’ spine, the other sliding up to clutch at his hair, savoring the thick softness of it against his fingers. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps it was not, certainly he’d been ready for a long time, but it was when Bellamy’s head turned just an inch or so to the side, allowing him to rest his cheek against Marcus’ hair, very nearly pressing a kiss into it, that Marcus finally came. He did not pull out of Bellamy, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and contracting deep inside him gave Bellamy a delicious shiver, as did the low, grunting sigh which tumbled out of him. His arms slid beneath Bellamy’s back, and they held each other close, heartbeat against heartbeat, breathing together, bodies beginning to soften and slow, sinking heavily down against the mattress together.

For a long, long, time, no one said anything. Bellamy, still stroking the older man’s back with one hand and caressing his hair with the other, could feel the heat of Marcus’ breath against his neck, and it was so delicious that even the sticky heat between their thighs, which would become uncomfortable relatively soon, was not enough for Bellamy to want this moment to end.

Finally, Marcus lifted his head, propping himself up on his forearm and looking down at Bellamy, his warm eyes intense and focused. “How are you?” he murmured. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

A hundred potential answers crowded into Bellamy’s thoughts, at this.

_I feel turned inside out._

_I feel like I might cry._

_I feel alive._

_I feel like you just performed a miracle._

_I feel like I don’t ever want to stop doing this._

_I feel like I want to kiss you._

_I feel like we might have made a mistake._

But he could not say any of these things, because Marcus had looked him in the eye and offered him a choice, and he’d chosen this, and Marcus was killing himself trying to make this work, so Bellamy owed it to him not to make it harder. Not to torture a good man with mixed signals. Not to cause him any more pain.

So he decided to make it easier.

“I feel,” he said, smiling at Marcus with a contented sigh, stretching out lazily against the cushions, “like I could just nap right here for an hour and then eat a double cheeseburger.”

“From across the room he heard Niylah laugh.

“That’s a very good sign,” she said wryly. “Marcus prides himself on that.”

“On making people come so hard they just crash out? Isn’t that bad for business?”

“Not in the least,” said Niylah. “It's the secret to repeat customers. Marcus always says that every time he gives someone an orgasm, he wants it to be the best orgasm of their life, no matter how many they’ve had or how many times they’ve done it with him.”

Bellamy smiled up at him. “Mission accomplished,” he said cheerfully, and Marcus smiled back, rising from the bed to begin the process of cleaning them both up; which he did with his back turned, to both of them, so neither Niylah nor Bellamy saw the wistful expression on the older man’s face, or the flicker of something in his warm dark eyes that might have been regret.

The face of a man who had gotten everything he thought he wanted, only to realize it wasn’t what he needed at all.


	13. Liliam Inter Spinas (“Lily among the thorns”)

**THREE YEARS AGO**

To his credit, Marcus more or less held it together over the next three weeks until the day of Abby’s scheduled arrival.

Or at any rate, he _thought_ he was holding it together, and most of his staff - exasperated though they might be - found the whole thing endearing enough to compromise by only complaining behind his back, instead of to his face.

“I think it’s sweet,” said Harper, reaching across the table to steal a nacho from Bellamy’s plate. “He’s like a little kid with a crush.”

It was Two-Dollar Tuesday, which meant late-night margarita happy hour at El Sombrero, a cherished staff tradition. They’d been unable to tear Marcus away from his desk, where he was working on what appeared to be his sixth completely new draft of a revised performance schedule; but the younger employees of the Paradise were both unwilling to miss the fun, and frankly in need of a brief respite from Kane’s sudden-onset control freak tendencies, so they'd gone ahead without him. The two couples - Lincoln and Octavia, and Harper and Monty - were crammed into one side of the large front booth that was always unofficially reserved for the Paradise staff, while Murphy, Raven, Nate and Bellamy sat across from them. Bellamy was in the middle, so his nachos - which he had ordered for himself, because he had had four clients today, and was starving - were in easy enough reach that they had become communal, against his unrelenting protestations.

He slapped Harper’s hand away, but she only gave him an innocent, angelic smile, and stole another chip.

“Yeah, except he’s also the owner and CEO of an entire resort,” Murphy pointed out, “so it’s a little harder to be charmed when he’s in your kitchen twenty-four hours a day micromanaging all your menu selections to make sure every single dish is perfect. He has literally never given a shit what I put on my table before, as long as it’s good. Now it’s all, ‘Abby doesn’t like seafood,’ ‘Abby prefers red wine,’ ‘do we have a chocolate dessert planned? Abby likes chocolate.’ She’ll be here for fifteen days, motherfucker! We’ll have like two hundred other guests! I can’t build a whole menu for one random lady we haven’t even met yet. No matter how hot she is.”

“Oh, she’s hot,” Raven mumbled, accidentally drawing attention to the fact that her mouth, also, was full of nachos.

 _“Excuse_ me,” said Bellamy irritably, “but when the waitress asked if anyone else wanted to order something to eat, _all of you said no.”_

“Stolen nachos taste better than nachos you pay for,” said Harper.

Raven nodded. “It’s just science,” she said apologetically, reaching for the bottle of ghost pepper sauce sitting on the ledge with the other condiments. “Sorry, man.”

“Don’t - what are you doing, Raven, you can’t just dump hot sauce all over someone else’s food!”

“I can if I want to make it edible! Sorry you’re an old grandpa who thinks mayonnaise is too spicy -”

“Okay, now _that_ was out of line. I can handle _normal_ spicy food, I’m not a _freak,_ sorry I just didn’t want half a cup of _ghost pepper_ in my digestive tract at _ten p.m. -”_

Raven made a face at Bellamy, Bellamy made a face back, and Lincoln - who, in the absence of Marcus or Indra, usually became the de facto adult - quietly signaled the waitress that they would be needing two more plates of nachos in order to avert a civil war.

“How do we know she’s hot?” asked Monty, interrupting the ghost pepper argument with a far more pressing question. “Not that it matters.”

A large portion of the table perked up at this topic change. “Oh, Raven found the website of the hospital where she works,” said Nate. “Are you the only one who hasn’t seen this?”

“Hang on, I’ll send it to the group thread,” said Raven, tapping briskly on her phone, followed by the sound of everyone's text alerts buzzing at once.

“Oh fuck, she _is_ hot,” Monty exclaimed. 

“And that’s not even a good picture,” Harper agreed. “That’s just a random HR headshot with bad lighting.”

“Show him the one you found from the hospital fundraiser,” said Murphy. “The spank bank one.”

 _“Murphy,”_ said Bellamy repressively. “Don’t talk about her that way.”

“Have you seen the picture I’m talking about?”

“No.”

“Then shut up and don’t judge me. Raven?”

“Hang on, I have to find it again - oh, here we go.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. He'd already seen the headshot, and thought she was a nice-looking woman who would look nice standing next to Marcus, and had given her appearance no further thought. Abby Griffin was not really a person to him, she was an event; a source of staff gossip, a change in routine, and hopefully a way to make Marcus happy. He knew a little of their history, but she was still mostly a faceless entity to him, only now she was a faceless entity with a generic corporate headshot attached. Brown hair, polite smile, glasses. He'd noted little else. So he picked up his phone with a sigh, ready to reiterate his same point to Murphy a second time, and then once again immediately forget what the woman actually looked like.

Then he saw the photo, and froze.

The sexiest thing about it, he realized later, when he looked back on that moment - the first time he’d ever felt anything at all about Abby Griffin as a _woman_ \- was how palpably clear it was that she wasn’t trying to be sexy at all.

It was a badly-framed photo, clearly taken by some marketing assistant for the hospital foundation who was trying for a shot of the three men in suits beside her, all of whom were wearing nametags that said “TRUSTEE” on them. The woman was an afterthought.

But Jesus fucking Christ, she was _riveting._ He could have looked at her for hours.

He was grudgingly forced to bite back whatever comment he would have made to Murphy, because actually, even though he’d been gross about it, he wasn’t factually wrong. Abby Griffin was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen in his life. She was wearing a curve-hugging red dress, with a faint hint of shimmer to it, and it was a tossup as to whether the full soft breasts or the toned dancers’ legs were the most tantalizing body part the fabric revealed. Her hair was thick and wavy and loose around her shoulders, and she was drinking a glass of what looked like Scotch, and listening to the conversation of the three men beside her with a raised eyebrow and a fraction of a smile lifting one corner of her plush red lips, an expression which seemed to say, _I am far too polite to comment out loud about how full of shit you all are, but if any of you actually_ saw _me, you would know that I was thinking it._

She was not a tall woman; in height, the men dwarfed her. But Bellamy knew that he could stare at those three male faces for twenty-four hours straight and still not be able to pick a single one of them out of a police lineup later. They looked the same in that way all rich white men in their sixties look basically the same. There was nothing there. But the small figure beside them absolutely _radiated_ charisma, her personality shining out through the photograph and dazzling him with the sheer force of her presence, and Bellamy knew right then that even if he never met in her in person he would not forget that face for the rest of his life.

He wondered if she would bring the red dress with her.

“You think any of us will have jobs after the boss finds out we’re all texting each other pictures of his crush?” Octavia asked, raising her eyebrow and taking a long swig of her margarita. “Should we just start updating our resumes now?”

Murphy rolled his eyes. _“You’re_ fine,” he said. “Not all of us have the dad thing with him that you and Bellamy do.”

Both Bellamy and Octavia - for virtually 180-degree opposite reasons - bristled at this. “He’s _not my dad!”_ they both snapped at Murphy; but unfortunately, since it came out in near-perfect unison, it served only to make the whole table burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” said Harper, “could you _be_ more brother and sister?”

“This is cute,” Raven agreed. “I support it. Both of you could use a sibling.”

“Pretty convenient, then, that you’ve never had to have sex with each other,” said Monty.

“Yeah,” said Murphy, “why is that?”

“Indra says they look too much alike,” said Harper around a mouthful of nachos.

“Wait, really? That’s the reason?”

“Well, plus no one fucks Octavia," Raven pointed out, "and Bellamy doesn’t do dungeon work, and they’re both too bossy to pair well so she said their chemistry wasn’t very good. But also, she did make Roan swap out one time with Bellamy when a client requested both of them."

"Because, quote, ‘It just looks incest-y,’” Harper added.

“Okay, this is my favorite conspiracy theory now,” said Murphy. “Bellamy and Octavia are long-lost twins. I’m calling it.”

Bellamy buried his head in his hands, too irritated by the conversation even to worry about leaving his nachos unprotected. “Marcus is not my dad - "

"Daddy, then?"

 _"Shut up, Murphy._ And Octavia is not secretly my sister, we just happen not to take the same kinds of clients, and please don’t use the word ‘incest’ while I’m eating.”

“New topic,” said Octavia firmly, “back to bitching about Marcus.”

“Motion seconded,” said Nate, “all in favor?”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“All of you are dead inside,” said Lincoln. “Let the man have one nice thing in his life.”

“That’s a very hypocritical attitude from the man who was just telling me this morning that he asked you about transplanting an entire bed of bromeliads to the other side of the lawn because, quote, ‘I’m worried there aren’t enough flowering plants outside Abby’s window,’” said Octavia, causing all the hoots of laughter to pivot immediately in Lincoln’s direction.

“I regret telling you anything,” he retorted, “and I regret ordering more nachos for the rest of you people.”

“An entire bed of plants?” Monty repeated dubiously. “Do we have that in the discretionary budget?”

“I talked him out of it,” Lincoln sighed. “He had her in room 403, for the double-size bathtub, and it’s mostly palm trees and lawn on that side. But the other corner room, on the south side, is right over the orchid garden and you can see both fountains. So I gently suggested that maybe rebooking the guests who were in 449 and just giving her that room was a more affordable option than uprooting two hundred bromeliads. Especially because now he wants the whole grotto and soaking pool deep-cleaned before she gets here, and that’s a four-day job with outside contract help. No,” he said to Monty, cutting off his unasked question, “we do not have that in the discretionary budget, but I will find the money somewhere. We’re not going in the red to impress Kane’s girlfriend.”

“Are we comfortable using the word 'girlfriend?'” asked Monty. “I mean, he’s seen her once in like twenty years.”

“Dude,” said Raven. “Come on. We all know what’s going to happen. She thinks she’s coming for two weeks, and he thinks she’s coming for two weeks, but she’s never going to leave the Paradise.”

“Like in a romantic way, or a ‘Hotel California’ way?” asked Murphy dryly. “How dark is this going to get?”

“Oh, fuck you, that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m with Raven on this,” said Harper firmly. “Is he being a little annoying right now? Sure. Obviously the plant thing is insane, and whatever Murphy cooks will be fine, and yes I did tell him that overhauling the entire performance schedule on all three stages was a ridiculous ask with so little notice, and he can’t custom-tailor a whole events calendar based on what he thinks one woman will like. But none of that is the really important factor here.”

“What’s the really important factor?” asked Nate.

“That he’s forty years old, and we’ve never seen him like this before,” she said simply, and that shut everyone up. “He’s not _trying_ to drive us all crazy, you guys. He’s terrified he’s going to fuck this up because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” She looked from Raven to Nate to Bellamy. “Have you guys ever noticed that he sometimes gets . . . almost _sad,_ after sex?”

“I have, actually,” said Raven, a little surprised, like she hadn’t considered this before. Over the rim of his margarita, Nate nodded too. “Bell, does he do that with you?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Bellamy said, busying himself with digging through his nachos to find a chip that had missed Raven’s blanket of hot sauce, so he wouldn’t have to look at anyone, and trying for a deliberately light tone that would give nothing away and move them off this somewhat dangerous ground. “Then again, he usually works me pretty hard, so I’m not always paying much attention to anything else by the end except how sore I’m gonna be tomorrow.”

This made everyone laugh, and had the desired effect of redirecting the conversation away from him, but it did not end it altogether.

“Wait, so why do you think that is though?” Raven asked Harper. “The sad thing.”

“I just think that every once in awhile, he forgets himself,” she explained. “It’s possible to be _too_ good an actor, you know. I think sometimes he just gets so deep into it, you know, like in the moment, emotionally, that there’s a part of his brain that loses track. Like everything feels good and he’s totally lost in it and then he comes and the audience applauds and he’s like, ‘oh right, that wasn’t real.’” She shrugged, a little helplessly. “I just think he wants something real,” she said. “Bellamy, you guys are pretty close. Have you ever noticed anything like that?”

Bellamy wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh, or cry.

 _Yeah, Harper. He_ did _want something real, and he wanted it from_ me, _but I couldn’t give it to him, and every time we’re together we’re both hyper-aware of how not-real it is, so actually, the sad he is with you and the sad he is with me aren’t the same thing at all, even though they’re both kind of my fault, but neither of us can talk about it, because none of you can ever know, and it's been a year, and we're both trying really fucking hard to be over it._

“When you put it like that,” he said carefully, trying to think of a sufficiently vague thing to say next, but was mercifully saved by the appearance of two more piping hot platters of nachos, deposited into the center of the table by the waitress, who waved off Lincoln’s attempts to hand her his credit card. The staff of the Paradise were well-liked here, as they were everywhere in town, because they were excellent tippers, responsible drinkers, never caused disturbances, and because any establishment in the town of Eden that served booze was far more likely to be in Marcus Kane’s corner than Brother Zechariah’s, so any enemy of the teetotaling misogynist cult was a friend to all bartenders.

Raven reached for one of the sizzling hot plates, and Bellamy smacked her hand. “No way,” he said. “Eat the ones you _poisoned_ before you go tainting the fresh ones. At least one of those two orders is mine.”

“Just for that,” said Raven, “next time we're in the Red Room, I’m going to chug a whole bottle of hot sauce before we go on, and then you will have ghost pepper fumes all over your dick. Don’t cross me.”

“Give the man his nachos, Raven,” said Murphy. “He’s about to lose his most-favored-nation status with Marcus as soon as Doctor Babe shows up. Hot melted cheese is the only thing he has left to give his life meaning.”

“Shut up, Murphy,” said Bellamy, more annoyed by this than even Murphy had intended.

“You’re full of shit, Murphy,” Octavia agreed, shoveling cheese into her mouth. “This whole thing was Bellamy’s idea. Don’t go trying to drive a wedge between him and Abby before she’s even gotten here yet.”

“You realize she’s going to be watching all of you fuck,” said Murphy. “Like, we’re looking at pictures of her on our phones, whatever, but she’s gonna be at all those shows, and she’s going to see all of your asses stark goddamn naked.”

“Watching you fuck her boyfriend,” Monty agreed. “Good luck with that.”

“He met her here,” Raven reminded them. “She literally watched Marcus fuck her husband. She’s not gonna turn out to be a weird jealous prude.”

“Raven’s right,” said Octavia. “If she was uncomfortable, she could have made him come to her. Force him to take two weeks off and go stay in a Hilton in Vermont or something while they work on their project. But she’s coming here at least partly because she actually likes this place, and she wants to see what he’s done with it since the last time she was here.”

“You’re only so serene about it because you never have to get naked,” Murphy pointed out. “And you don’t fuck Marcus. You're practically his daughter. So you’re already in line to be her favorite.”

“Excuse me,” said Raven hotly, “who’s the one who did all the digital reconnaissance here, so we could all be prepared?”

“You think she’s going to like you the best because you’re the one who hacked Kane’s password, gave us all her phone number, and texted us pics to jerk off to?”

_“Shut up, Murphy.”_

“No, _asshole,”_ said Raven, “I think she’s going to like me best because I’m going to know all kinds of things about her I can just casually drop into conversation to make her feel more comfortable.”

“Oh,” said Monty, “like a stalker.”

 _“Not_ like a stalker.”

“No, that’s great, you’re totally right. ‘Welcome to the Paradise, Dr. Griffin, we have so much in common. My social security number _also_ ends in a two! Hey, how’s your daughter enjoying her room on the third floor of your home which faces the west side of the street? These are very normal conversation topics!’”

“I think Murphy is rubbing off on Monty,” Raven complained. “In high school he wasn't nearly so sarcastic.”

“Murphy is just a pure and innocent chef,” said Murphy, “who does not get paid to _rub off_ on anyone.”

Raven kicked him. “You know what I meant.”

“Do you think they’ll get married?” asked Octavia unexpectedly, the first genuinely serious question of the night abruptly silencing the whole table.

Lincoln gave her a long, quiet look. “Would that bother you?” he asked gently.

From her face, the answer appeared to be a resounding yes, but she seemed curiously reluctant to say it. “Why would it bother me?” she muttered, looking down at the table.

“Possibly because you’re the only person at the Paradise who’s been married before,” he offered, “and it came with a lot of trauma, and memories you tried to forget. Or possibly because Marcus having a partner will change a lot of things I don’t think the rest of you have necessarily considered. Someone else who isn’t one of you would become the most important person in his life, and that means the dynamics will change.”

Bellamy looked at him, surprised by this. “What do you mean?”

“Marcus Kane doesn’t _need_ to work as much as he does,” Lincoln reminded him. “He’s incredibly successful. He could retire, sell this place, take a backseat and let some new manager run it, and still be a very wealthy man. The fact that he doesn’t - that he’s still so involved in the day-to-day, that he still performs as much as he does, takes clients, curates the artistic programming - I mean, has it not occurred to you that that’s at least in part because this place is absolutely the only thing in his life? And that perhaps, if he had something else, outside of this, he might be able to let go of work just a little bit more easily?”

Harper stared. “You think if she sticks around, he’s gonna _leave?”_ she demanded. “Lincoln, that’s crazy. He can’t.”

“I’m not saying he’s going to leave. I’m saying that work - and work sex, and work relationships - are taking up a lot of empty space in his life; if he falls in love, and gets married, those spaces wouldn’t be empty anymore. He might put that time and energy into his own life instead. Which I’m all for, by the way. I think it would be good for him. Marcus never does anything for himself.”

“That’s true,” said Octavia, a little grudgingly. “I mean, I don’t want everything to change, but I do want him to be happy.”

“Then smile, and be nice, and make friends with this woman,” Lincoln advised her. “Make her feel welcome. Whatever you do, don’t put Marcus in a position where he’s ever going to have to choose between any of you and her.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Raven confidently. “She can’t break up the team if we just . . . make room for her _on_ the team. Bring her into the family. Get her to love this place just as it is.”

“By ‘on the team,’ are you suggesting you think she’s going to quit her job and take up yours?” said Murphy dryly. “Because I hate to break it to you, Raven, but I don’t think you’re gonna get a chance to fuck her.”

“Hey, it could happen!” Raven protested. “We haven't had a MILF since Diana left, and you _know_ there’d be an audience for it.”

“If I say she definitely has the tits to pull off mommy kink, is everyone gonna hit me?” asked Murphy.

“Yes,” said Bellamy, and “Yes,” said Lincoln, and “Yes,” said Monty, as Octavia kicked Murphy sharply under the table.

“I didn’t even say it!” he exclaimed.

“Precautionary measure,” Octavia warned him tartly. “Don’t be gross.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Those are inside thoughts, Murphy,” said Raven. “Someday Indra’s going to retire, and Monty will be in charge of human resources, and you’re going to have start watching your mouth.”

“Or, alternately,” Murphy suggested, “we just stop drinking with Monty.”

“We’re a package deal,” said Harper, taking her boyfriend's hand.

“That’s fine. Lose ‘em both. More nachos for me. Hang on, I just got a text from Kane.”

“Me too,” said Monty, puzzled.

“Me too,” said Octavia, as everyone pulled out their phones.

> **Marcus:** _ <I’m going to assume you intended to send these photos of Abby to a group text thread that does NOT include me> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _ <is that correct> _

All eyes swiveled accusingly toward Raven.

“You didn’t check,” said Octavia, in a low, dangerous voice, “whether _Kane was on this text thread?”_

"I just replied to the last group message from this morning!" she protested. "About confirming the time to meet up tonight for happy hour!"

"Oh, the happy hour we also invited Kane to?"

“Fuck,” muttered Murphy. “Maybe we _are_ fired.”

“I can fix this,” said Raven, a little desperately.

"Really?" demanded Monty. "How? I don't see a _time machine."_

"I'll deal with this," said Bellamy, picking up his phone, but Octavia waved him off.

"Let Raven," she said, nodding at the other girl, who was frantically tapping out a reply. "She got us into it, let her get us out of it. We only step in if she makes this worse.”

"And what are the odds of that?" muttered Murphy under his breath, as they all stared down at their phones, watching the conversation unfold, nachos temporarily forgotten.

> **Raven:** _< how much trouble are we in>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< how many margaritas have you had>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< not enough to blame this on the margaritas>_
> 
> **Raven:** _ <i feel that honesty is an important part of our relationship> _
> 
> **Marcus:** _< you’re all sitting around that table and talking about her, aren’t you>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< not in a BAD way>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< this is exactly the kind of unhinged behavior that makes me nervous>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< we aren’t going to embarrass you, boss>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< we promise>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< the last thing I want is for her to be worrying that you know all kinds of personal things about her>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< okay, well, think of it this way>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< she has a kid, right>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< so technically us gossiping about Abby before we meet her is roughly equivalent to Abby’s daughter gossiping about you with all her friends>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< this is just normal meet the family stuff>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< it’s not the same>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< why?>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< because Abby’s daughter doesn’t know about me>_
> 
> **Octavia:** _< wait, WHAT>_
> 
> **Harper:** _< what?????>_
> 
> **Nate:** _< where exactly does she think her mom is going for two weeks>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< on a business trip, which is ALL THIS IS>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< she used those words herself>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< so I’m going to ask you all again to please BEHAVE YOURSELVES while she’s here and not do or say anything that would make her uncomfortable>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< or make her think that anyone here has been talking about her as though this is something OTHER than a business trip>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< have I made myself extremely, terrifyingly clear>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< roger that, boss>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< thank you>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< you can go back to your margaritas and gossip now>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< okay we love you sorry for making everything weird!!!!>_
> 
> **Marcus:** _< just ease up on the electronic surveillance, maybe>_
> 
> **Raven:** _< you got it>_

“Okay,” said Murphy. “I think I’m going to need another round of margaritas before we tackle this new piece of information.”

“Yeah,” said Harper, biting her lip with a worried expression. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“What happens if it turns out they’re not on the same page?” asked Octavia. “If she thinks she’s just here on a business trip and he’s all . . . like this?”

“It’ll work out,” said Nate. “She’s hot and single, he’s hot and single, the end.”

“Such a romantic,” said Lincoln.

“Marcus is an adult,” said Bellamy. “Maybe we’re not giving him enough credit for being able to manage his feelings in a mature way. He’s not going to start acting like a teenager just because -”

Everyone’s phones buzzed at once again.

> **Marcus:** _< that second picture is really pretty though>_

“He’s still staring at her,” said Murphy. “Guys, we need a plan. This dude is so fucked.”

“So fucked,” agreed Raven.

“So fucked,” agreed Nate.

“It’s going to be fine,” said Bellamy firmly, though he was less and less sure, now, whether he actually believed it. But it was enough to convince the others, who trusted that Bellamy knew Kane better than the rest of them did. Only Octavia remained silent, biting anxiously at her lower lip, as the conversation turned from Kane's love life back to more everyday matters. Bellamy played along, even though he was only half-listening to most of the conversation, but he was very, very careful to hide it, so no one would nudge him and ask him what he was thinking about that left him so distracted.

He did not want to admit to anyone at the table that he - like Marcus - had not stopped thinking about that picture of Abby Griffin.

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

“For the last time,” said Octavia, rolling her eyes as Marcus paced anxiously back and forth across the carpet of the reception office like a groom on his wedding day, “you have absolutely _got to chill.”_

“You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression, Octavia!”

“This isn’t your first impression! You’ve known her for nineteen years! You shared a bed in a hotel room three years ago! You talked to her on the phone _this morning!”_

“I didn’t mean a first impression of _me,_ I meant the Paradise. It has to be perfect.”

“It will be. You’ve been driving everyone batty for three weeks making sure of it. Murphy and Lincoln might be about to burn you in effigy, and Monty is going bonkers trying to make sure we don’t use up the whole discretionary budget, but there literally is not one single thing you could think of to do that you haven’t done to make Abby’s visit better. What you _can_ do is ruin it by being a sweaty, nervous, fidgeting weirdo.”

“I’m not -”

“Yes you are.”

With great effort, Marcus attempted to stop pacing and stand still.

Octavia leaned back in her chair, staring at him, waiting.

He cracked in less than five seconds. “The flowers and champagne -"

“In the room, like you asked," she sighed, waving it off. "Housekeeping took care of it. Everything is ready. Harper went up there herself to double-check and says the room looks great.”

“Shit. You know what I didn’t think of -”

“You probably did, but what?”

“If she wants a massage, I should call Luna and make sure she saves some room on her schedule -”

“Abby’s going to be here for two weeks. If she wants a massage, she can make an appointment with Luna like a normal adult human person. Why don’t you just let her get here first, and then you can talk to her about all that stuff and figure out what activities she wants to do when you're . . . you know. Concierge-ing her.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Is that code for something?”

Octavia threw up her hands. “I mean, you _are_ planning to be her concierge, yes? That’s all I’m saying.”

“It felt like you were saying something else.”

“You’re glaring at me like I’ve somehow impugned your virtue, but I do just want to remind you that we work at a brothel.”

"Seeing as how it's _my_ brothel, I am aware of that fact, yes."

"So since she's coming out here expressly to spend two weeks at _your_ brothel, and since you talk to this woman multiple times a day, I'm presuming you've already had several conversations about what she wants to do while she's here and what, specifically, she wants to do with _you,_ so I'm not sure why you're suddenly acting like this is your first date."

Marcus hesitated, and looked away, a deeper kind of anxiety briefly revealing itself beneath the layers of surface trivialities, and Octavia began to wonder for the first time if there was more to this story than she knew.

 _"Marcus,"_ she said warningly. "You _have_ had the conversation with her, right? Please tell me she's not coming in cold and you're planning to just improv this."

But Marcus didn't answer.

Because, in fact, as Octavia had guessed, he _hadn't_ had the conversation with her.

They'd talked about everything and everyone else except themselves.

Marcus had stirred her to orgasm after orgasm over the phone, talking about Bellamy, talking about Harper, talking about the bisexual venture capitalist (due back in Vegas next month, with the penthouse suite already rebooked). He'd gone into intense, decadent detail about the new scene he was rehearsing with Raven, a kind of role reversal of his daddy kink scene with Harper where Raven, instead, would seduce _him._ And Abby, in turn, had continued taking him through the catalogue of her decades of erotic adventures with Jake; just last night she'd been telling him about the time they were caught by campus police making out on the bench in front of the chapel, Abby hovering just on the edge of orgasm with Jake's fingers inside her. He'd pulled his hand away just in time, so the security guards thought they were only kissing; but she'd been so desperate that the moment they were around the corner and out of sight she'd dragged Jake into the bushes to finish her off.

So sex was still there, hovering in the air between them always, but they only ever talked openly about sex that had happened in the past. Their nights with Jake two decades ago, or the very good blowjob Marcus had just gotten this morning, or Abby's wedding night.

But they never talked about sex in the future.

(I _miss you. I missed this so much,_ he'd said to her that first night, the closest he felt safe coming to the real, deeper truth; but she was already asleep by then, and had never said it back.)

So Marcus knew Abby was excited to sit in the theatres and watch the performances, and that the thought of coming while watching someone else fuck just a few feet away was unbearably titillating to her. And he knew she was eager to see the gardens, to try the food, to go hiking with him and experience all his favorite views of the sprawling Nevada desert. He knew everything, in fact, that he could possibly need to be the perfect concierge for her and curate the perfect experience - except for one thing.

He could not bring himself to ask her the most important question.

He had tried, a hundred times, and failed.

Which he knew was ridiculous. It was a basic, foundational question, and with any other client it would be the first thing he asked. The fact that he felt any reservations at all reminded him uncomfortably of his conversation last year with Niylah, where she'd observed that his unwillingness to answer a straightforward question about masturbation was, in fact, the answer to that question.

If he told Niylah about this - which he hadn't yet, though he already knew he eventually would, because she made it so maddeningly impossible to evade things - she would point out that his fear of asking a comparably simple and ordinary question to Abby was also a crucial piece of information he needed to examine.

_"Do you want to have sex with me, while you're here?"_

Most of the time he assumed the answer would, of course, be yes; she'd wanted to, after all, in Las Vegas, he'd seen it on her face when she woke up in bed beside him and again when she'd been so reluctant to get out of the car. And even from thousands of miles away, through the phone, their chemistry remained as potent as it always had, and sometimes in the heat of the moment she said things to him, or he said things to her, which seemed to at least indirectly indicate a mutual desire that eventually it would be more than just words again.

But since it had all become real - since there was now a date to count down to, and things like plane tickets and rental cars were now involved - neither of them had actually addressed the elephant in the room, and Marcus was aware that Abby was talking around it as deliberately as he was. To avoid panicking about this, he had kept himself busy finding approximately twelve thousand other things to panic about, none of which actually mattered all that much, and Marcus knew it.

So, clearly, did Octavia, who he looked up to find regarding him with a furrowed brow and genuine alarm on her face that made it clear he'd accidentally let the mask slip.

"Marcus Velociraptor Kane," she said wearily. "You absolute moron."

(Marcus' actual middle name was Harold, his father's name, but on principle Octavia refused to say it; she claimed it was because Harold was "an old man name," and liked to substitute increasingly florid replacements anytime it came up. Initially, this had annoyed him. But two years ago, as he grumbled to Indra while whiting out the "BLACKBEARD" she'd cheerfully scrawled on the Employer Signature line of her contract, the other woman had informed him in patient, exasperated tones, that the reason for it went deeper than just Octavia's usual desire to be a pest.

"She's carrying so many trauma triggers around any mention of her own father," Indra explained, "that her instinct is always going to be to protect you from yours, too. It's not that she doesn't want to say his name; it's that she doesn't ever want you to have to hear it."

After that, Marcus did not grumble anymore, except very lightly, to keep up appearances; Octavia got fidgety if you were too sentimental at her.)

“You know, instead of just sitting there criticizing,” said Marcus, “you could actually be helpful.”

“With what? Everything’s already done.”

“I just want to run through it all one more time and make sure I didn’t miss anything. I want her to get the full experience.”

“Yeah,” said Octavia skeptically, “because the reason she flew three thousand miles and then rented a car to drive out here from Vegas is because she wants to test your hospitality management skills.”

“Octavia -”

“Like secret shoppers at the mall. Walking around pretending to be normal customers and then sending reports back to corporate if you don’t try to upsell them at the cash register.”

“Very funny.”

“That’s not what you’re wearing, is it?” she asked, rather offhandedly, causing Marcus to look down at his sleek black suit in total and utter panic.

“Why?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“That was a joke."

“Is it too formal? Oh God, what if she shows up and she’s in, like, jeans, and I walk out in a _suit,_ like some kind of _asshole -”_

“Marcus, I was _kidding._ Jesus Christ, man, get it together.”

“I can’t do this. I should cancel. I’ll just text her and cancel. I’ll tell her the hotel has . . . I don’t know. Fire ants.”

“It’s almost hard to believe you’re still single,” said Octavia.

Whatever retort Marcus might have made to this was silenced by Harper popping her head into the office doorway. “Her car is at the gate,” she said, and Marcus felt his stomach drop like he'd just plummeted to the bottom of a rollercoaster. “I’m assuming you’ll want to come out and check her in yourself, yes?”

“Oh, God,” Marcus muttered, running his hands through his hair. “Oh God, oh God. She’s here. She’s actually here.”

_Abby was here._

Not on the phone, not three thousand miles away, and not nineteen years in the past. Right here, right now, pulling up to the entrance of the Paradise and moving nearer and nearer and nearer to him with every passing moment. Even in the off season, when the valets weren't here and guests had to park themselves, she would still only be five or six minutes away. _With_ the valets (because of course he had the valets), she'd be walking through the front door in less than ninety seconds.

And Marcus, he now knew, feeling his heart begin to hammer inside his chest - despite micromanaging the menu and rearranging the performance roster and the now rather humiliating bromeliad incident - was not ready at all.

Harper was still standing in the doorway, staring at him, waiting patiently for an answer as Marcus - making no move towards the door - continued pacing back and forth across the carpet.

"Boss?" she repeated. "Check-in? Abby? Instructions?" She waved her hand in front of his face. "Is anybody home in there?"

Octavia groaned in irritation. "Okay, we don't have time for this," she said briskly, closing the thick slatted blinds over the window between reception and the front office, concealing them from view. "Harper, you go check her in. Full charm offensive. Profuse apologies. Marcus is stuck on a call but he'll come up to her room to say hello as soon as he's free."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try and snap him the fuck out of this."

"Do you need backup? Because all the boys are in the lobby, trying to act casual and like they aren't just blatantly lurking to get a look at the hot doctor. Want me to holler at Bellamy?"

"No, I've got this. But for Christ's sake, make them at least look like they're on welcome duty or something and not just being weird creeps. Marcus said he didn't want anyone drawing attention to -"

"The fact that we already know more about Abby than she probably wants us to know."

"Exactly."

"I'll make them stand on the steps," said Harper. "Like Marcus said the concierges used to do in olden times."

"Back in the dark ages."

"Thousands of years ago, prior to the invention of written language."

"Before the earth's crust cooled -"

"I can _hear_ you," Marcus snapped, though it did not stop him from pacing.

"Go," said Octavia. "Ten seconds to places. I've got this. Scoot."

Harper gave the other girl a nod, shook her head with fond exasperation at Marcus, and departed, closing the door behind her.

"Better yet?" Octavia asked.

"No."

She sighed, and moved over to the office window, blinds now drawn. "Come here,” she said. “You can see out, but she can’t see in. You’ll feel less hysterical once she’s actually here. Just get your weird initial breakdown out of the way behind closed doors and then you can go upstairs and be normal again.”

Marcus inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Yes. I can do that.”

It worked, for about ten seconds. He watched through the tiny crack at eye level between the wooden slats as Harper resumed her place behind the desk, perfect smile in place, and waved Nate, Bellamy and Roan over toward the stairs. Only once they were all lined up against the curved wooden banister - just as Marcus had been, the first day Abby walked into his life - did he notice that all three of the boys were wearing their best suits. Harper looked particularly nice today too, she'd done the cat-eye with black liquid liner she saved for special occasions, and this was her best dress.

They'd dressed up for Abby, too.

He'd been making them crazy for two weeks, and he was self-aware enough to know when he was being humored and patronized; but still, here they all were, polished and shined with their best clothes and their best smiles, ready to make Abby's first glimpse of the Paradise a perfect one. True, he knew there was more than a little vanity in it; obviously Roan would want to look his best in front of a VIP client whose budget - because it was on the house - was effectively unlimited. But it was also an act of love.

(Octavia, of course, was wearing sweatpants and Ugg boots and a tank top that said "FIGHT ME", but Octavia showed her love in other ways.)

 _You're being ridiculous,_ he said sternly to himself. _For God's sake, just go out there._

And he very nearly did.

Then the lobby door opened, and Abby Griffin stepped across the threshold of the Paradise Hotel, and every conscious thought in his mind disappeared completely except a quiet, devastated _Oh, no_ as he realized how much trouble he was in.

He'd been telling himself he was capable of spending two weeks with this woman and then letting her leave at the end of it and return to her real life, which was not here, and of which he was not a part; but the second he saw her walk through the door he knew immediately, all the way down to the marrow of his bones, that watching her inevitably walk back out of it was going to shatter him.

This might be the stupidest, most reckless thing he'd ever done in his life.

She’d come in an air-conditioned SUV this time, not a vintage convertible with an open top, so she entered without a hair out of place, and Marcus was suddenly grateful for Octavia’s foresight, because he would not have been able to maintain his composure if he’d been standing in the lobby when he caught his first glimpse of her. He needed the security and privacy of the wooden slats, because he was blatantly staring, and he knew he was staring, and he knew he would not have been able to stop.

She was wearing an emerald green sundress, breezy and full-skirted, with delicate straps that highlighted the graceful bones of her shoulders and the arc of her throat. Her thick honey-colored hair was pulled up in a soft ponytail which bounced and swung with every step. Her sandals were gold, and so was her jewelry, and she looked ten years younger than the silent, unhappy woman he'd spotted three years ago sitting alone in that wine bar. She did not look like a grieving widow anymore. She looked joyous and vibrant and alive.

 _She looks like this place,_ he thought suddenly, an ache rising up from somewhere deep within his chest. _She looks like she belongs here._

It was so easy to picture this Abby Griffin strolling through the tropical gardens, mimosa in one hand, straw hat in the other. It was so easy to picture her sunning herself on the lawn chairs or wreathed by the steam from the soaking pool inside the grotto.

It was so easy to picture her reclining elegantly on the padded benches of the Blue Room, long legs crossed, watching with a wicked, delighted smile on that lovely face.

Marcus watched through the slats of the blinds, feeling uncomfortably like a stalker, as Abby set down her suitcase and made her way over to the desk, directing the full force of that lovely smile at Harper as she spoke. Harper answered back, and even though Marcus could not hear the exchange, it was clear from the way the smile dropped off Abby's face that Harper was, as Octavia had ordered, making his excuses for him. Her brow furrowed with concern, some of the easy cheerfulness of her posture fading away, and Marcus watched her look around the lobby with an uncertain expression, as though she'd suddenly realized she was lost.

 _Oh, for the love of God, just go out there,_ a voice inside his head exclaimed irritably. _Just tell her you finished your stupid fake phone call and take her suitcase up to her room and stop being a cowardly asshole who hides in his office._

And he was going to, this time, he really and truly was. Hand on the doorknob and everything.

But then the terrible thing happened.

Abby took her keys from Harper with a smile, picked up the handle of her sleek wheeled suitcase, turned toward the stairs, and saw the trio of boys in black suits. Then, as Marcus watched in stunned horror, Abby walked up to Bellamy and said a few quiet words to him. Bellamy seemed to stammer something, uncharacteristically fidgety and nervous-looking, and shot a guilty look across the lobby directly at Marcus, as though apologizing for something. Then he looked back at Abby, nodded, took her suitcase, and followed her up the stairs to her room, leaving Marcus with the feeling that someone had just stuck a knife through his ribs.

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

He had misread the whole thing.

It was easier to bury heartbreak under irritation, so he put his emotions aside to focus on hospitality logistics, and his tone - as he sat back down at his desk and pulled up the document with Abby's welcome packet, which now needed to be completely redone - was practically a bark. "Get Harper in here," he snapped at Octavia. _“Now.”_

Octavia stared at him for a moment, confused, but opened the door and waved the other girl in. "Do you, um, maybe want to tell us why you're suddenly losing your shit even worse than before?" she asked pointedly.

Marcus did not look up from the computer. "She picked Bellamy," he said, in a completely expressionless voice. “We have to start all over. I set this up all wrong."

The girls looked at each other. "Marcus, what are you talking about?" Harper demanded. "She didn't _pick_ Bellamy. She probably just needed a hand with her luggage."

"They were on the stairs," he said flatly, still not looking at them, focusing all his attention on dragging and dropping replacement text so he didn't humiliate himself in front of his employees by falling apart. "They were on the stairs, in suits, and she thinks that's how it works, because that's how it worked the last time. That's how the Griffins ended up with me."

A result, he could not help cruelly reminding himself, that Abby hadn't wanted.

Despite everything that had happened since, and all he knew they'd meant to each other . . . still, twice in her life she had walked into this lobby, and both times she had chosen someone who wasn't him.

"Wait," said Octavia, shaking her head. "Hang on. This makes no sense. Harper, you didn't tell her they were concierges, did you?"

"I didn't say anything about concierges. I thought _Marcus_ was her concierge.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Marcus, in a stiff voice. “Clearly.”

Octavia gave a discreet whistle out the open door, and Nate entered with Roan, followed by Raven and Murphy, who'd also come down to lurk and missed the whole thing by less than a minute.

"Okay, so, boss is freaking out," Octavia began with no preamble. "He thinks she picked Bellamy -"

"She _did_ pick Bellamy."

"Shut up and keep doing whatever you're doing in Canva. The grownups are talking." She turned to Nate. “What did she say to him before he left with her?”

“I didn’t hear all of it,” Nate said. “She asked if he was Bellamy, and he said yes, and then there was something too quiet to make out, and then she said ‘come upstairs with me.’”

“Or ‘come to my room,’” said Roan. “I think that was it.”

“Yeah. ‘Come to my room with me.’ Or something.”

Everyone in the room who wasn't Marcus looked at each other a little uncomfortably.

"Still," offered Murphy, "that doesn't necessarily mean -"

"I'm a professional," Marcus said tartly, "and none of you have to protect me. I've been doing this job all my life. It's clear that Abby is here as a tourist, she wants to have the full experience, it's my mistake for assuming anything different, but it does mean we have to rethink everything." He looked over at Raven, still in her jeans and t-shirt. "How fast can you get into wardrobe?"

Raven looked startled. "Pretty fast," she said, "but why?"

“Good. You have five minutes. Black dress, red lipstick, full concierge mode. I want you in there with Bellamy. She might want a woman. I didn’t think to ask. She did last time she was here; she wanted Callie, not me. She likes dark-haired women. Though, Harper, maybe you should be ready too. It might also have been that she wanted an ingenue. I don't know. I didn't ask about this, I didn't ask about any of this, I should have - never mind, it's too late to fix it now. Just get up there, fast."

“Wait, Kane, are you . . . sending me up to fuck your girlfriend?” Raven asked, a little incredulously.

“She is _not my girlfriend,”_ Marcus snapped, with more heat behind it than any of them expected, as he rose from the desk to collect the new pages from the printer. “She is a VIP guest of the Paradise Hotel, and we are giving her the experience she came here for. And if she thinks that any of you _think_ that she is my girlfriend, it would almost certainly make her incredibly uncomfortable."

Then everyone watched in awkward silence as he immediately contradicted his own point by opening the packet and pulling out a huge stack of tickets to the next two weeks of performances, all of which were clearly pairs, rather transparently indicating an assumption on his part that whenever he wasn't performing he'd be attending each show as her date. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, a mark of his visible distress even though his face was expressionless, so no one commented on the rather obvious hypocrisy of his last remark as they watched him swiftly flip through the stack, pull out what were obviously supposed to be his tickets to each show, throw them in the trash, and return the stack of single tickets to the folder, tucking the newly printed pages behind them. Then he added a glossy copy of the concierge roster with headshots and a sleek embossed cardstock rectangle labeled “Menu of Services”, replaced his business card with Bellamy’s and Raven’s, and handed the packet to the extremely confused dark-haired girl standing hesitantly in the doorway.

“Five minutes, black dress, give her this,” he said. “I prepped for this all wrong, I misread her, and I don’t know what she wants. I need to know what she wants.”

“Maybe she just wanted someone to carry her suitcase and you’re reading way too much into this,” suggested Octavia, but Marcus did not answer.

Because Octavia didn’t know that Abby Griffin knew _exactly_ who Bellamy was . . . and what he was to Marcus.

She didn’t know Abby had made herself come listening to Marcus describe fucking him. She didn’t know Abby was the only person in the whole world to whom he had been able, even a little bit, to unburden himself without judgment. She didn't know how close he'd come to letting Bellamy break his heart.

But Abby did know.

And she had walked right up to him, and chosen him for herself.

It was selfish to hope she’d choose Raven, and send him away. Bellamy would be good for her. His youth and enthusiasm would delight her. He was like a younger version of Marcus in some ways, but without the stiffness and reserve of the young man she’d first met when she arrived almost twenty years ago.

Jake would have liked Bellamy, too.

“Just go up there, boss,” said Octavia wearily. “You’re being such an idiot.”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t want to intrude. I’ll see her at the Red Room show, if she decides to come. She made her choice, and I don’t want to be in the way.”

“I really do think you’ve got this all wrong,” said Harper anxiously.

Roan nodded. “Just go talk to her,” he said. “Go up there with Raven.”

But he couldn’t.

Abby Griffin wanted a sexy, dangerous, exciting adventure at the Paradise Hotel, like the one she’d enjoyed on her honeymoon. She had not come here for Marcus. That much was clear. They were attracted to each other, they clearly had a connection, perhaps at some point during her visit she would even approach him and invite him to her room, and he might be permitted to touch her once again, as he had longed to do for so many years. But she’d said the words “business trip”, and she’d walked in the door and chosen Bellamy right away, and those were clear signals.

And - perhaps more importantly - she'd lied to Clarke.

If you were disappearing to the middle of the desert for a wild erotic getaway, frankly, you were probably doing your teenage daughter a favor by not planting that image in her head, and letting her believe you were in boring presentations all day. But if you were going to visit someone who _meant_ something to you - if anything about this was real to Abby the way Marcus had suddenly, terrifyingly begun to realize it was real to him - then would you say something about it to your daughter?

Maybe. Maybe not. Marcus knew nothing about parenting. He'd been raised in a brothel, after all, so he was the last person to ask about one did and didn't tell their children about sex.

But Clarke Griffin didn't even know his name, and until he watched Abby take Bellamy upstairs it hadn't occurred to him how many things that could mean.

But everything was clear to him now. He could not let his feelings get in the way of his ability to do his job. If he went to her while she was with Bellamy, he would be crossing a line. That wasn't how they did things here. He couldn't hit on someone else's client. He couldn't push her to choose him instead. All the power and agency had to be in Abby's hands, and she had already chosen. So.

She was his friend. She was here to help him with a project. He had promised her a good time. That was all this was going to be, and in hindsight it had been naive of him to convince himself otherwise.

"Go," he said, "all of you," and everybody went. "Even you, Octavia," he added, without looking at her. And finally she did, closing the door behind her.

* * *

**FIVE MINUTES EARLIER  
**

She'd paid very little attention to any of them when she walked in.

It had been patently obvious she was looking only for Marcus, and barely registered the fact that anyone else in the lobby existed. But Bellamy didn't mind being ignored. Welcomed it at the moment, in fact, since it freed him up to watch her without her realizing he was doing it.

She had made her way to the check-in desk toward Harper, giddy with delight and anticipation, a radiant smile lighting up her lovely face. But even from behind her, where his view obscured her face, but not the thick caramel ribbon of her hair or the perfect slope of her slim curves beneath that green dress or the taut, muscular calves beneath it (calves that looked strong enough to wrap around a man's waist and - _Jesus Christ, stop it, Bellamy!_ _)_ , he could see the exact moment she deflated completely.

Wait.

Where _was_ Marcus?

From O and Harper's frantic waving and whispering as Dr. Griffin was handing off her car keys to the valet outside, it had seemed to Bellamy that the man must have been in his office. But surely he knew Abby was here? What could possibly be more important than this moment, when he'd been driving them all up the wall in anticipation of it for weeks?

He was so preoccupied with trying to puzzle this out, and wondering if there was a way he could discreetly make his way across the lobby to let himself into the office without giving Marcus away and embarrassing him, that he wasn't aware of Abby Griffin approaching him until she was standing close enough that he could smell her perfume.

She smelled like roses and honey and black pepper and he wanted to lower his head to her throat and taste her skin and _Jesus Christ, man, get yourself together._

"You're Bellamy, aren't you," she said, in a tone that both was and wasn't a question, and he hated himself a little for how much pleasure it gave him to hear his name in her low, rich, throaty voice. He already knew he would be lying awake tonight replaying the sound of it over and over again, and he already hated himself for that too.

“Yeah? Yes. Uh, yes. That’s me," he stammered, immediately mortified at how awkward he sounded, but she barely seemed to register it. She took a step closer, leaning in, voice low in his ear, so that Roan, three steps below him, and Nate, three steps above, could not hear.

This brought him, rather unfortunately, into much closer proximity to both her scent and her breasts. He swallowed, hard.

“I need to talk to you about Marcus,” she said. “ It’s important. Come up to my room with me.”

Bellamy could feel the two other men on the stairs watching. So was Harper, across the lobby at the check-in desk.

Behind her, Bellamy could see one of the wooden slats of the office window blinds move.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

He had no idea why Marcus was lurking in his own office and watching Abby like a weird stalker, but that was a problem for later, because Bellamy knew exactly how this would look to Marcus, and it wasn't good.

_Come out of your office, you absolute moron. Get out here, and fix this, and take her upstairs yourself, because she smells like heaven and I want to touch her hair and this is going to be a disaster._

But Marcus didn't come. Bellamy was on his own.

“I’m, um, I don’t think I’m your -" he began awkwardly, shooting a helpless glance straight at Kane. "I mean, I’m not supposed to . . .”

He trailed off, totally at a loss for how to proceed. But when he finally looked up and met her eyes for the first time, there was nothing seductive in them. She wasn't trying to pick him up. She was looking at him with intense determination, and something that might have been worry, and it occurred to Bellamy that Abby Griffin was a smart woman who knew it must mean something that Marcus hadn't been in the lobby to greet her.

Something here wasn't right, and she sensed it too.

"Sure,” he finally said, surrendering - both because, may as well admit it, he was intrigued, but also because she was impossible to say no to - and took her suitcase to follow her up the stairs, feeling way, way too many pairs of eyes burning into the back of his suit jacket as everyone watched him go.

All he could hope now, he thought as he led Abby Griffin to the room that the entire staff had spent weeks making perfect, was that Marcus had enough faith in him to know that Bellamy hadn't done what it probably looked, from the other side of the room, exactly like Bellamy had done.

Abby didn't say anything as they walked, though he saw her taking in the changed surroundings. The hallway carpet was new since last year, and the walls had been repainted several times; he didn't know how it had looked two decades ago when she was here last, but he could feel her comparing sight to memory, admiring the one and smiling with nostalgia over the other. He slowed his pace, so as not to rush her. She'd softened, a little, from the stern intensity of a moment ago when she'd spoken his name, and was palpably lost in thought. Her face lit up with obvious delight as Bellamy unlocked the door to her room and opened it, then hung back in the doorway to let her take a moment to look around. She was entranced by all of it, clearly, whatever she’d had to say to him temporarily forgotten as she gazed at the crisp white linens, the bowls of fresh tropical flowers on every flat surface, the lush gardens outside the window. She _glowed,_ in this room, somehow, and it made Bellamy a little sad that it was him, not Marcus, sharing this moment with her.

Or, not precisely _sharing_ it, since until she turned back around and saw him still hovering awkwardly in front of the door, she seemed to have forgotten he was still there.

“Oh, sit,” she said impatiently, gesturing to the edge of the bed as she took in the armchair facing it. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

She regarded him evenly. “No bullshit," she said, which was a rather surprising beginning. "Not between you and me. We can't afford it. You know exactly who I am, Bellamy. And I know exactly who you are."

Bellamy flushed a little. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Abby - Dr. Griffin - I don’t -”

“Tell me I’m not getting into the middle of something I shouldn’t be getting in the middle of,” she said unexpectedly, causing his eyes to snap up, and there was something like sadness flickering in her dark eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t want to make his life more difficult. I just need to know.”

Bellamy looked at her for a long time before he spoke.

“Abby,” he said gently. “If you know exactly who I am, then you know you don’t need to ask that question.”

“So you can’t think of any reason,” Abby pressed him, “any reason at all, why me being here would complicate Marcus’ life? There isn’t . . . anyone else, who I should be factoring into the equation here?”

_Yeah. Me. Because I can’t stop staring at your insanely perfect breasts, which was not in the plan._

"Of course not," he lied, which was the only possible answer to give.

"You called me," she reminded him. "This was your idea first. And he agreed. And then I called him to tell him I was coming. And he agreed. I thought I knew what I was getting into, coming out here, Bellamy, but it suddenly occurs to me that Marcus hasn't initiated any of this. You did, and I did, and he went along with us. But he never actually invited me. It's been three years since I saw him in Las Vegas - a story I'm assuming you know," she added, with the ghost of a wry smile as his eyes flicked away from her, embarrassed. "Three years. And he never called me and said, 'Abby, come back.' So now I'm thinking, 'What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

“I really think that you’re worrying over nothing,” said Bellamy. “Marcus is thrilled you’re coming. He’s hardly been able to talk about anything else.”

“Then where was he when I got here?” she asked pointedly. “And don’t say he was on a phone call. That sweet blonde girl is a horrible liar.”

“He’s nervous as fuck, Abby,” said Bellamy bluntly. “He wants this to be perfect for you. He’s been making us all crazy. Fussing with the menu, bossing around the gardeners, moving you back and forth between rooms to make sure you had the best view. I think maybe he was a little . . . overwhelmed, possibly, and maybe he just needed a minute."

Abby raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she asked skeptically. "I'm that terrifying?"

"Yes," said Bellamy immediately, which finally got her to laugh.

"I see why he's crazy about you," she said, smiling at him, relaxing back into her chair a little bit, and Bellamy tried in vain to repress the way it made his heart leap in his chest to think that Marcus and Abby talked about him when they were alone.

A knock at the door punctuated this remark. “See?” said Bellamy, moving over to open it. “What did I tell you? He just needed a minute to get his shit together."

"Fine," said Abby, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. "You win. I overreacted. You were right and I was wrong."

Then he opened the door.

"Hi," said Raven brightly, Marcus nowhere to be found.

Bellamy stared at her. "The fuck are you doing here?" he hissed under his breath, too softly for Abby to hear.

"Boss' orders. Roll with it," she hissed back, then stepped around him into the room. She was wearing her tightest and shortest black dress, hair in a sleek high ponytail, lips painted crimson, and even though it was quite clear that Abby's primary response to her presence was astonishment - tinged with annoyance that she wasn't Marcus - it did not escape Bellamy's notice that her dark brown eyes flicked swiftly and discreetly up and down the younger woman's body, pausing at all the right places.

Information logged away for the future, in case it was ever useful: Abby Griffin definitely liked women.

But the admiration in her gaze as she took in Raven's toned, perfect shoulders above the black satin bodice of her strapless cocktail dress evaporated almost immediately at the girl's next words, as she handed Abby the folder she was holding in her hand.

“Marcus sent me up, with his compliments,” she said. “In case you wanted a choice of concierges. Roan, who you saw in the lobby downstairs, is also available, as is Harper, the young woman who was behind the desk. The full concierge roster is included with your welcome packet."

Abby stared at her blankly. “Marcus thinks I want a concierge?” she repeated, looking from Bellamy to Raven and back again.

"Um," said Raven. "He - yes?"

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

Well, Bellamy couldn't exactly say he hadn't seen this coming, or hadn't known how it would look. All preventable if Marcus hadn't been hiding in his office, and _why the fuck had he been hiding in his office?,_ but still, yeah. It looked bad.

"Marcus. Thinks I want. _A concierge_ ," Abby repeated, her voice suddenly as frosty and brittle as an icicle, and Bellamy would have sworn he could feel the cold wind of her mounting fury lower the temperature in the whole room.

“Um,” said Raven, panicking slightly. “Yeah. Yes. He did. After you brought Bellamy to your room, he asked -"

“How the _hell_ does Marcus know that Bellamy is in my room?”

 _Because he was watching through the blinds like an absolute lunatic,_ Bellamy thought but didn't say.

Raven swallowed hard. “Okay it’s possible that there has maybe been . . . a misunderstanding," she mumbled.

"Yes," agreed Abby, in that same icy voice, and if he hadn't also been so rattled it would have been absolutely hilarious to Bellamy, seeing Raven more cowed than she'd ever been in her life.

It was clear to them both that Dr. Griffin was not to be fucked with.

"Bellamy," she said crisply, settling herself in the chair with her arms folded, staring him down with a steely glare. "If you and - "

"Raven."

"If you and Raven would be so kind. Please go and find your boss and tell him I would like to speak with him. _Immediately."_

“Yes, ma’am,” said Raven, and “Yes, ma’am,” said Bellamy, as both of them bolted out the door. 

* * * * *

Marcus was still pacing in his office when he heard the sound of footsteps descending the main staircase across the lobby, and the sound caused him to bolt to the wooden blinds to peer out again.

It was Raven and Bellamy.

Still dressed, still pulled together and unruffled. Bellamy's tie was perfectly straight, Raven's lipstick impeccable.

Nothing had happened.

_Nothing had happened._

The wave of relief that swept through Marcus was so intense that he felt his knees go weak, and he had to steady himself for a moment before opening the door. He had not quite realized how sure he had been that Bellamy would end up in Abby's bed tonight until he'd actually watched him descend the staircase. But the relief was immediately followed by an intense and profound guilt; what would it do to Bellamy, to know Kane's fear had caused him to think so little of the man who was probably his closest friend? When Bellamy knew who Abby was, and what she meant to Marcus, and this whole thing had been his idea, because he wanted to make Marcus happy?

Jesus, he'd overreacted so badly.

As he stepped out of the office and made his way across the lobby, straightening his jacket and tie, he saw both Bellamy and Raven gesturing for him to go up. Raven looked uncharacteristically tense, and seemed to be looking to Bellamy to do the talking. When Marcus reached them on the landing, he looked as though he wanted to say something, his young brow furrowed in concern; but in the end he only mumbled "Just go talk to her" and fairly pushed him up the stairs. Then both of them vanished, like they couldn't flee fast enough.

Which, granted, was a little weird.

But still. Abby had not chosen them.

Bellamy and Raven were two of the most beautiful people at the Paradise, and Abby knew from his stories that both of them were excellent lovers - young and hungry and energetic, with unflagging stamina and a great deal of creativity. And she could have had them, if she'd asked - either, or both - or she could have had anyone else. She could have called down for Harper, or Roan. But she'd sent them away, and asked for him, and he knew it was selfish and shallow to be so relieved, but there it was.

When he reached the door and knocked, he felt his heart hammering in his chest. “Come in,” came that low, throaty voice that still sent a shiver up his spine every time he heard it; only now it was not on the other side of a phone, it was only on the other side of a door. He opened it, and there she was, sitting in the armchair with her long legs crossed, very clearly waiting for him.

“Welcome to the -” he began, but she didn’t let him finish.

“Hi,” she said coldly, holding up the folder, which had been sitting in her lap. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”


	14. Pone Me Ut Signaculum Super Cor Tuum (“Set me as a seal upon thy heart”)

**THREE YEARS AGO**

The weekend had gone by in a flash, the way these weekends always did, and Sunday night had come around more quickly than Abby had expected. Clarke had no Monday classes this semester, and was off Fridays by noon, something Abby never tired of pointing out to her was the absolute _height_ of privilege in one’s freshman year; terrorizing her daughter with horror stories about how exhausting med school had been, to really force Clarke to appreciate the freedom of being an art student, was one of her favorite parental pastimes. (Jake, who had double-majored in environmental science and engineering, would have also excelled at this.)

Clarke always made a big Sunday night feast when she was home, one of their new traditions. Abby was an extremely half-assed cook, and her daughter's visits were usually the only time she got a decent home-cooked meal. There were several casseroles in the freezer to sustain her until next time. Tonight it was spaghetti and meatballs, with a slow-cooked marinara sauce that had made the whole house smell like paradise all afternoon, though Abby knew when she reheated it tomorrow for dinner when she was alone again, the aromas of basil and garlic would only make her sad.

To cheer herself up, she held out as long as she could without bringing up Clarke’s impending departure, letting her daughter chat away about friends and classes and lacrosse and a cappella choir and how the campus Women’s Center had gotten Elizabeth Warren for their spring lecture series, while Clarke cooked and Abby set the table. Once the food was in front of them, they ate in mostly happy, amiable silence, punctuated only by the quiet strains of _La Traviata_ in the background, because Clarke enjoyed themed playlists when she made fancy dinners and was trying to teach herself to like opera.

Only once they had cleaned their plates, gone back for second helpings, and cleaned their plates again, did Abby force herself to bring up the unwelcome topic.

“What time are you driving back tomorrow?” she asked, as neutrally as possible, no emotion in her voice, _Look, we’re just casually discussing logistics, this has nothing to do with watching the hours tick down until I’m all alone in this house again with no one to touch or talk to._

Fortunately Clarke, spooning a feathery dusting of snow-white Parmesan onto her last meatball before devouring it, was too occupied to notice anything amiss. “Early,” she said. “Probably seven or eight. Will you be home, or are you working?”

“Not until nine, so that’s perfect. I’ll take you to Starbucks to fuel up before you hit the road. Do you need me to help you pack after dinner?”

“I think I’m good. I’m going to have to borrow your big suitcase for the trip back though. The zipper broke on mine.”

Abby froze, wineglass hovering in midair halfway between the table and her mouth. “Um,” she said awkwardly. “I’m not sure that will work.”

“No, it’s fine, they’re basically the same size. I can just throw all my shoes in the trunk of the car, but my clothes and books will fit.”

“That’s not . . . um. That’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t tell me that one’s broken too.”

“No, it’s not broken. It’s just that you won’t be back until the middle of next month, and I . . . need it.”

Clarke stared at her. “What do you need a suitcase for?” she demanded, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“To pack clothes in while traveling,” Abby said, “which I believe to be the usual reason.”

“That is _not_ an answer.”

“I’m going out of town from the 15th through the 30th. I need my suitcase. End of discussion.”

 _“Excuse_ me, not even _remotely_ end of discussion. What does ‘out of town’ mean? Why are you being all cryptic? This is fishy. You never go anywhere.”

“Hey now. That's not fair. I go places.”

“Name one place you have gone in the last five years that was not a work conference.”

“Taking you to -”

“Or taking me to college.”

“Fine, so I don’t travel much.”

 _“Much?”_ Clarke repeated. “You don’t travel at _all._ And I happen to know that you have no more work conferences until like July, which is why I figured it would be open season on the good suitcase.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

Clarke set her fork down, folded her arms, and stared down her mother with a steely determination which Abby - from whom she had, of course, inherited it - knew from the weariness of past experience was not worth trying to fight. “Where are you going?” she demanded again. “And why didn’t you say anything about it until now?”

Abby was silent for a long, long time. Then, rather unexpectedly, she shook her head a little bit, muttered a quiet “Fuck it,” knocked back the rest of her red wine in one hearty swig, set down the glass, looked directly at her now-startled daughter, and sighed, “Okay. It’s time for a _very_ long-overdue conversation.” She reached for the bottle to top off her own glass, then, rather astonishingly, slid it across the glossy mahogany dining table towards Clarke. “As a medical professional, my general policy on underage drinking adheres fairly strictly to the letter of the law,” she said. "But you are nineteen, and I am under no illusions that you’ve been a teetotaler at college, and it’s possible we may _both_ need wine to get through what I’m about to say.”

Clarke made no move to take the bottle, but simply stared at her mother, eyes wide with confusion and a hint of alarm. “Mom,” she said, “what the _hell_ is going on?”

“I need to tell you about someone who is really important to me. Someone who’s been important to me for a long, long time.”

“Do you have a boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”

 _“No,”_ said Abby firmly. “I would _never_ lie to you about being in a relationship, Clarke. That’s not what this is. That’s not not where we are. Yet.”

“But you _want_ it to be.” 

Abby nodded, a little helplessly. “I do,” she said. “Very much. But it wouldn’t be right to take that step until I talked to you about it, and all weekend I’ve been trying to figure out how to bring it up, and getting nowhere. So I apologize in advance if this ruins our last night.”

“Mom, I started trying to set you up on dates like a _year_ ago,” Clarke reminded her, shaking her head in puzzlement. “So if you were worried I would feel weird about you moving on after Dad -”

Abby took a long, deep swallow of her wine. “That’s not . . . exactly it.” She inhaled deeply, steeling herself. “Do you remember a few years ago, when I went to the medical technology conference right after your father died? The year it was in Las Vegas.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember that I told you while I was there, I ran into an old friend?”

Clarke’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yes,” she said, the memory suddenly very clear in her mind. A great many things felt perfectly reasonable to her _now_ that had felt unspeakably traumatic _then_ , with the loss of her father so fresh, and she vividly recalled the terror rising in the pit of her stomach at the idea of any other man who wasn’t Jake Griffin going anywhere near her mother. “You said you spent the night in his hotel room because he had a big fancy penthouse for the night for some reason, but that nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” Abby assured her. “But it’s become clear, I think, that both of us would _like_ something to happen.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. So I’m flying back to Nevada for two weeks, to see him, so we can . . . figure out what we want this to be, and where we go next.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Oh, I escaped a terrible steakhouse dinner with the rest of the hospital board and went up to the wine bar to have some dessert in peace and quiet, and Marcus walked in. It happened to be the hotel where he was staying.”

“No, I didn't mean at the conference three years ago, I meant where do you _know_ him from. You said he was an old friend.” She paused. “Wait,” she said suddenly. “Wait. What was his name again?”

“Marcus,” she said slowly, reeling a bit from the disorienting sound of his name in her mouth while she sat here, at her dining room table in Vermont, in the home where she and Jake had raised their daughter; from the sudden _realness_ of him, the instant and shocking realization that he had been present here all along, no matter how much she had tried to keep all the threads from tangling. “His name is Marcus Kane.”

This, finally, was enough to force Clarke to reach for the wine bottle.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, pouring a hefty splash of red into her empty water glass. “The man you’re going to visit - the man you’ve known for years and think you might have feelings for - is the same man _Dad_ had feelings for?”

The wineglass slipped out of Abby’s shaking hand so swiftly and smoothly that, until it shattered, spraying red-stained diamonds across the whole surface of the table, she hadn’t even realized she had dropped it.

Still, she hardly noticed it at all.

“Clarke,” she whispered, face suddenly drained of color, eyes wide and dark. _“How do you know about that?”_

* * *

**SIX YEARS AGO**

The knock on the bedroom door was hesitant and tentative, so quiet that at first Jake didn’t hear it over the sound of the wind and rain outside. Abby was working an overnight shift and wouldn’t be home until morning, which meant he was free to read in bed with the bedside lamp turned up all the way instead of on the dimmer, which was kinder to his exhausted wife but harder on his almost-forty-year-old eyes. This made it much easier to immerse himself in whatever he was reading, now that he wasn’t straining to make out the words through his glasses, and by the time the sound of the knocking grew loud enough to pull him back to reality, he realized he’d already finished four more chapters of Al Gore’s _An Inconvenient Truth,_ which he was finally getting around to reading for the climate change-themed book club they’d started at work.

(“That’s like . . . the most depressing topic for a book club _ever,”_ Clarke had said disapprovingly.

“Not for a green architecture firm,” said Abby. “This is their bread and butter.”

“Are you going to make us read all the books too, Dad?”

“No, but I’m definitely going to ruin Thanksgiving by forcing everyone to talk about it.”)

It was the third knock which finally got through. Jake set down his book and took off his glasses. “Come in,” he said, as Clarke timidly pushed open the door.

“Dad?”

“Hey, baby. What’s up?”

“Am I bugging you? Are you busy?”

“Nah, Depressing Book Club isn’t until next week, I have plenty of time to finish. Come in, come in.”

Clarke hesitated in the doorway for a long moment, and Jake noted that she was fidgeting with her hands a little nervously, shifting her weight from foot to foot. This, in Jake’s experience, meant that she had something important to get off her chest, and was working up the courage to do so, and had elected - as usual - to start with her dad instead of her mom. Not just because, at the moment, Abby was not currently home, but because there was a very particular balance to the Griffin family, where Jake’s easygoing energy was sometimes a necessary counterweight to the intensity of Abby. Clarke loved her mother fiercely, but was so awed by her sometimes - so terrified of disappointing her - that vulnerable things felt safer once she’d filtered them through Jake and received his reassurance that this was something she could tell her mother too.

Jake waved her in, and finally she entered, making her way over to the bed. He had learned from experience that anytime his daughter came into her parents’ bedroom and sat criss-cross applesauce on the bed, hugging a pillow in her lap, that meant this was something personal, or something difficult, and he would have to tread very carefully to let her work this out at her own pace. So he didn’t rush it. He simply waited patiently, letting her take her time.

“So there’s this dance next Friday,” she finally said, staring fixedly down at the pillow she was holding. “The Snow Ball. Which is a really stupid name.”

“Yeah, not a lot of creativity went into that one,” Jake agreed, and then fell silent again, which had the desired effect of making Clarke smile, and loosen up slightly, without really interrupting her train of thought or taking the conversation in a sideways direction.

“It’s the first formal dance that juniors are allowed to go to. So it would be my first, like . . . real dance. Like with a fancy dress and everything.” 

“Do you want to go dress shopping this weekend? I can take you on Saturday, if you want. Unless you’d rather go with your friends, which is also fine, and will not offend me.”

“No, I’d like that. Everyone else I know already has a dress, they announced it all months and months ago, I just . . . didn’t think I wanted to, before.” She paused, still not looking at him. “It’s the first dance of the year where people go with like . . . _dates,_ ” she finally mumbled.

Ah. Now they were getting somewhere.

“That sounds like fun,” said Jake neutrally. “Are you planning to go?”

“I don’t know. I want to - but I didn’t want - until I told you guys about - I mean I didn’t want it to be a _secret_ or anything but I just didn’t know how to . . .” She trailed off, the pitch of her voice rising slightly with agitation, a little breathless.

“Hey.” Jake reached out and took her hand. “Look at me, kid.” Clarke lifted her head and met his bright blue eyes with her own matching ones, which he could see were bright with anxious tears. “Take your time, if you need to,” he said. “But you know there’s nothing you can’t say to me.”

“I have . . . someone I want to ask to be my date to the dance,” she said finally. “I was going to do it today, but I chickened out. But I want to tomorrow. But I wanted to talk to you first.”

“That’s great! Is it someone we’ve met?”

“No.” A long, long silence, in which she tried to look away again, but a gentle squeeze of her hand pulled her back. “It’s, um . . . it’s a girl,” she said, in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “She’s a girl. I like girls. I’m bisexual.”

Jake took a deep breath to steady himself, and exhaled very, very slowly. This had immediately become one of those Advanced Difficulty Level Parenting Moments, where you become hyperaware of the impact every single word or look or gesture can have on a vulnerable kid. The stakes here were impossibly high; if he even paused just a little too long before answering, the sixteen-year-old girl sitting in front of him might burst into tears. How many horror stories had he and Abby heard from their own friends about thoughtless, offhand comments from their parents during fraught coming-out conversations that still haunted their memories decades later, sometimes long after the relationships had been repaired? Jake was powerfully aware that the conversation they were now having - and the one she would, presumably, have tomorrow with her mother - would be permanently etched into Clarke’s memory now. Under no circumstances could he fuck this up. One wrong word in a situation like this and you ran the risk of breaking something fragile and delicate in your relationship with your kid forever.

He wanted to make this moment perfect, for her. He wanted to think of the exact right thing to say which would convey to his brilliant, magnificent daughter that her parents loved her for who she was, and would love whoever she loved, and that all they cared about was whether or not she was happy. He wanted to say something thoughtful and articulate and profound, some shining gem of paternal wisdom she could hold onto for the rest of her life whenever she needed it most.

Instead, what came out was, “If she doesn’t have a dress yet either, bring her along on Saturday.”

Clarke burst into tears.

But they were the good kind, he could tell immediately; there was laughter mixed in with it too, and an exhale of relief that seemed to come from the center of her bones and left her shaky and giddy and a little discombobulated. She set aside the pillow and scooched closer to her dad, resting her head against his shoulder and letting him pull her close.

“I was so afraid you’d be upset,” she said, voice still a little shaky. “I don’t know why.”

“Because it’s always scary to say important things out loud,” Jake told her, “and because a lot of times when you hear these stories from people, the parents don’t come out of them too well. It’s probably more common to be scared than not, no matter who your parents are.”

“That’s probably true.”

Jake kissed the top of her head. “I’m really proud of you,” he said softly. “I always was, and I always will be. But you just did a brave, hard thing, and I’m even more proud than I was before.” 

He tightened his arms around her, letting her snuggle into his chest like she used to do when she was small, and for a long, long time they just held each other, as he marveled for the millionth time in sixteen years that this remarkable person was actually his daughter; that whatever happened to him, all the best of who he was would live on inside Clarke Griffin forever.

“Do you want to tell Mom, or do you want me to tell Mom?” he asked. “I’m cool with it either way, and I don’t think one is better or worse than the other.”

“No, I’ll tell her,” said Clarke. “Now that I’ve said it once out loud it feels less scary.”

Jake pulled away to look her in the eyes. _“‘Once?’”_ he repeated, staring at her. “Clarke, am I . . . am I the very first person you told?”

She nodded, a little shyly. “I mean I think my friends kind of know,” she said. “Like they’ve made jokes about it in history class - she sits next to me, that’s how I met her - but I haven’t, like . . . _said_ it.”

“So this was you, saying it out loud for the first time.”

“Yes.”

“Like, for the rest of your life, I’m going to be the first person you came out to.”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Is it going to be super fucking embarrassing if I cry now?” 

“A little, yeah.”

“Too late.”

 _“Daaaaaaaaaaaad,”_ Clarke groaned, rolling her eyes teasingly as she watched her father rub at his eyes with his sleeve.

“Don’t ‘Dad’ me, young lady, we are having a _moment_ and you are _ruining_ my vibes.”

“I should have told Mom first, she would have been so much more chill about this.”

“If you don’t think she’s going to cry too, you are out of your mind.”

“I’m just glad you never have to _explain_ things to her, you know, there are times it’s stressful having a mom who knows everything but there are times it’s so comforting?? Like, one of my friends from volleyball came out t as bi and her mom didn’t even know what it _was,_ she was like ‘I thought there were just gay people and straight people and that was it’ and ‘well if you also like boys then why don’t you just date a boy and be straight’ and it was like a _whole thing._ So at least I won’t have to deal with that. Like even if it turns out I’m the only bisexual person Mom knows, at least she went to medical school.”

“Well, she knows _me,”_ said Jake absently, the words tumbling out of his mouth seemingly untethered to conscious thought. Clarke pulled back immediately to turn and look at him, startled.

“I’m sorry, _what?”_

Jake swallowed, hard. He really hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to make Clarke’s moment about himself, which was both a shitty parent thing to do and a shitty male thing to do; it was just that something in the air between them tonight had made it impossible to keep Marcus Kane from entering his thoughts. On some level, he realized, he’d wanted to navigate this conversation with his daughter in a way Marcus would have approved of. Marcus, who made it so comfortable and effortless to talk about these things, who lived with none of the world’s guilt or shame. Surely, over the course of his life, people had judged him for who he was, for what he did, but it had seemed to Jake - even in the short period of time in which they’d known Marcus - that he wore it lightly, and found it easy to shake off.

He wanted that for Clarke, that calm assuredness, that comfort in her own skin, that refusal to let the prejudices of the world make you feel sinful or small.

Clarke would like him, Jake suddenly realized. 

Maybe he should say something to Abby, one of these days. Maybe it was time.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got sidetracked. We’re talking about you right now. I want to hear more about this girl.”

“Her name’s Lexa, she just transferred this semester, she’s sophomore class president, she has brown hair, we can talk about all of this later, we are _definitely_ dealing with your thing right now.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“So you’re -”

“Bisexual. Hey, we’re tied now. I’ve never said it out loud either.”

“So Mom doesn’t know?”

“No, of course Mom knows, I just . . . never used the word, I guess.”

“Did you like, have a _boyfriend?”_ Clarke demanded. “How did I never know about this?”

“He was not my boyfriend. It was never . . . a thing that really turned into anything.”

“What does that mean?”

“Listen, kid,” said Jake frankly. “I’m gonna level with you. There’s a lot of this story that, trust me, you don’t actually want to hear.”

Clarke got it immediately. “Ew ew ew ew ew ew.”

“This is what I’m saying.”

“Tell me the kid-friendly version.”

He could not resist raising a slightly teasing eyebrow at her. “That makes it a _much_ shorter story.”

 _“Dad!_ Gross!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve just lived a very boring life and I have so few chances to really, properly traumatize you.”

“If you hadn’t just dropped like a _bombshell_ on me that one of my parents is bisexual, I would run screaming out the door right now. But I need to know the story.”

 _Both of your parents, probably,_ Jake thought but didn’t say, remembering the way Abby had looked at the pretty woman with glossy black hair who had been standing next to Marcus Kane on the stairs. But that wasn’t his conversation to have with Clarke. That was something for Abby to decide on her own time. 

Because in sixteen years, they’d never put labels on it, never taken another lover into their bed, never felt the need to explore it further, or identify a particular way. The only person they’d ever been with besides each other was Marcus. This meant it was not for Jake to decide what word Abby used for herself, or to say it out loud to their daughter before Abby did.

“There was only ever one guy,” Jake said. “Nobody else, before or since. It was a very long time ago, before you were born. But I was . . . very fond of him. It didn’t last long, for a lot of reasons - he lived thousands of miles away, and we never saw him again -”

 _“‘We?’”_ Clarke repeated. “You mean you and Mom? Mom knew about this?”

Jake considered a number of potential responses, covering the whole spectrum of unfiltered truth to outright lies. He didn’t exactly want to open the can of worms labeled “Your Parents Had a Threesome With a Sex Worker the Week You Were Conceived” while Abby wasn’t even home to bail him out, and he still felt awkward about turning Clarke’s coming-out moment into a story about himself, even though she clearly hadn’t minded. But he was on tricky ground here, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“Mom knew, and was fine with it,” he finally said, which seemed the safest and most euphemistic workaround for “Mom liked to watch us fuck” that obscured all the gory details without technically being a lie. “But it was . . . something I didn’t know about myself until I met him. The way it sounds like, maybe, this was something you didn’t know about yourself until you met Lexa.”

“Exactly,” said Clarke, with a nod of relief. “Like sometimes a person just . . . makes it click.”

“What do you like about Lexa?” Jake asked. “What made it click, with her?”

Clarke thought about it for a minute. “She’s really serious,” she finally said. “Like she hardly ever smiles. So then if you say something that _does_ make her smile it’s like . . . the _best_ feeling in the world.”

“Does she smile when she’s with you?”

Clarke’s blue eyes lit up with a distant, faraway look. “Yeah,” she said, something warm and soft and happy echoing in her quiet voice. “She smiles when she’s with me.”

 _Sounds like Marcus,_ he found himself suddenly thinking, but didn’t say, remembering the stiff, tense young man in the black suit whose resting face had looked so cold and uninviting that Abby had wanted to trade him for Callie the doe-eyed ingenue instead.

She also, he could not help reflecting, sounded more than a little like Abby.

Abby, too, had been intense and serious and difficult to get to know, and Jake had been the first person in all her life to make it through to the other side of those high, forbidding walls. And it had been the same, for them. It had been because Jake could make her smile.

“That’s a very promising start to a relationship,” he said.

Clarke looked at him. “What made it click with him?” she asked. “With the guy? What was his name?”

“Marcus,” said Jake. “Marcus Kane. And it was . . . very much the same, actually. It was the best feeling in the world, the first time he smiled at me.”

Clarke tilted her head and regarded him curiously. “You still like him,” she observed.

“It’s all way, way in the past, Clarke. I haven’t seen or talked to him in years. I doubt he remembers I exist.”

Clarke shook her head. “There’s still something there,” she said. “I can see it on your face.”

Jake felt his heart clench unexpectedly inside his chest, wondering if he’d revealed more than he’d intended to, and it was a moment before he could get his voice to work again. 

“It was a long, long time ago,” was all he finally said.

But Clarke was unwilling to let the matter drop so easily. “Did you know him from work?” she demanded. “Or from school? Or was he a neighbor or something? How did you meet him? Have _I_ ever met him?”

“Sorry, kiddo,” said Jake firmly. “We are done with the Q&A portion of tonight’s program. Now, I’m going to suggest you go to bed early tonight and get a lot of sleep, because your mother will be home when you wake up for breakfast and you’re going to have to do this again with her. There will, of course, be some mandatory modifications to Dr. Griffin’s Parental Lecture About Safer Sex Practices For Today’s Youth, after this - “

“Oh God, oh God,” Clarke groaned, burying her head in her hands, “I didn’t even _think_ about that, oh God, she’s gonna want to _talk_ about stuff, there’s gonna be _brochures_ again -”

“And a PowerPoint, potentially. Depending on how much time she needs to pull all the diagrams together. For sure she’ll have one by the weekend.”

“I want to die.”

“Just rip off the bandage and get it over with,” Jake advised her. “This is the cost of having a doctor for a parent.”

“I changed my mind. I’m not bisexual. I take it all back. I’m totally straight and the talk she gave me last year and the year before and the year before are still entirely sufficient. No new information is required. Please save me from the diagrams.”

“No one can save you from the diagrams, baby,” said Jake sympathetically. “I can probably talk her into keeping it under an hour, and not _also_ dragging Lexa into it, but that’s my best offer.”

“Ugh, _fine.”_

“It’s how she shows her love,” said Jake, as Clarke flopped back against the pillows with a dramatic, eye-rolling, extremely-sixteen-year-old sigh. “Someday, you’ll appreciate it.”

“I would rather throw myself off a _cliff_ than talk about _sex_ with my _parents.”_

So the answer to “how old should our daughter be before we tell her about the week we took a lover” definitely appeared to be “older than sixteen,” Jake reflected, and made a mental note to pass this on to Abby.

* * * * *

But somehow, he never did.

Once Clarke had come out to her mother, once it became something the whole family could talk about together, Marcus dissolved somewhat from the story, with Lexa now to focus on. Jake and Abby were not thinking of themselves; their daughter was in the first serious relationship of her young life (“She’s _never_ wanted to go to one of the formal dances before,” Abby had exclaimed to her husband the minute Clarke left for school the next morning), and seemingly overnight, “how do we find out every single thing we can possibly find out about Lexa without turning into nosy, overbearing parents” was the only topic of conversation between the two of them. How soon was too soon to ask to meet her? Were they _dating_ -dating, or just going to the dance together? Was there a future in this? Did Lexa know where she wanted to go to college? If Jake, who was behind in his volunteer hours for the Parent/Teacher Association, signed up to chaperone the dance, would that make him look like he was stalking his daughter’s new girlfriend? (Yes. Clarke vetoed this notion immediately.) Would Lexa’s parents like to have dinner and drinks with the Griffins while the girls were at the dance? (No. This was also, as Clarke firmly put it, “too extra.”) If they just happened to spot Lexa in the crowd at Clarke’s next volleyball game, were they allowed to sit next to her and be the Clarke Griffin cheering section? (Yes, this was permitted, as long as they did or said nothing embarrassing “and if Mom pulls out her phone and shows her _one single baby picture_ I am getting emancipated the second I turn eighteen and you will never see me again.”)

It was a lively, joyful few months in the Griffin family’s lives. Clarke was happy, which made her parents happy, and they soaked up every single tidbit of new information about Lexa they could, and finally by spring break the girls had deigned to permit their parents to all go out to dinner together, after which of course Jake and Abby were consumed by soaking up every single tidbit of new information about _them,_ and because suddenly their boring predictable parental lives were now actually _interesting,_ with so many new things to talk about and dissect and discuss, Jake can perhaps be forgiven for the fact that it genuinely never occurred to him to tell Abby what he’d said to Clarke about Marcus Kane.

And then, of course, not three months later, he went to work one day and never came back.

* * *

**THREE YEARS AGO (con’t)**

“Did you not know he told me?” Clarke finally said, breaking the long silence as her mother disposed of the last wine-red shards of broken glass into the kitchen garbage. Abby had been quiet for a long time as Clarke explained about the night she’d come out to Jake. As with so many of her most precious memories of her father, that one lived tightly locked away in a box inside her heart, where it had been too painful, for several years, to open it and look at them. “They were great about it,” was all she said whenever anyone asked her about coming out to her parents, occasionally punctuated by a joke about Abby’s sex ed lectures (she really had made a PowerPoint that time). But her father’s own revelation had been far too private to share, and she’d forgotten Marcus Kane's name completely until her mother said it again.

“No,” said Abby heavily, finally turning back to look at her daughter. “No, I didn’t.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Oh, God, baby, of course not.”

“Are you mad at Dad?”

This was harder to answer.

It made sense, of course. There had never been anything in the whole world Jake Griffin wouldn’t do to show his daughter how much he loved her. Telling her that he, too, was bisexual - that not only would she never be alone in the world, she was not even alone in her own family - seemed like exactly the kind of emotionally impulsive thing he would say in such a moment.

But still, there had been an implicit agreement between them - or so she’d always believed - not to tell Clarke about Marcus unless they figured out how to do it together. And Abby could not quite decide whether she was more angry at Jake for violating it, or relieved and grateful that he’d been able to be open with his daughter about this at least once in his life before he died, or heartbroken all over again that Jake was not here, packing his own suitcase to fly to Nevada with her.

“Dad never said how you met him,” Clarke prodded her. “He said it was a long, long time ago, so I figured it was someone from college.”

“Oh God,” sighed Abby. “It would be so much easier to explain if that were true.” She went to the cupboard and pulled down a clean wineglass, then poured a liberal splash of red into it, finishing off the rest of the bottle, and waving Clarke over to the living room couch. “We should both,” she said, rather ominously, “be sitting down for this.”

“Okay, now I'm worried that this guy is like a serial killer.”

“He is absolutely not a serial killer,” said Abby, as they seated themselves side by side in the plush green depths of the living room's coziest couch. “But if you really get into that mindset, and imagine that I’m flying out to Nevada to meet up with a serial killer, it will make the whole thing sound a lot less dramatic when I tell you the actual truth.”

“Spit it out, Mom, oh my God.”

Abby took another long drink of red wine to fortify herself. “Marcus owns a brothel in Nevada called the Paradise Hotel, and we went there on our honeymoon, which is where we met him, and your father was right that most of this story will contain details you absolutely, unequivocally, _do not want.”_

It all came out in one long breath, the words tumbling out of her, and a distant part of her mind registered that if the situation had not been so fraught, the slack-jawed expression of sheer unadulterated shock on Clarke’s face would have been pretty goddamn hilarious. For several moments, her mouth opened and closed with no sound, like a fish, before she finally managed to collect herself and remember how words worked.

“A brothel,” Clarke repeated blankly.

“Yes.”

“A _brothel.”_

“Yes.”

“So he’s a -”

“A sex worker. Yes. He wasn’t the owner when we met him. His parents ran the place then. He took over after they died.”

“His parents _raised him in a brothel?”_

“Something to think about,” said Abby wryly, “when you complain to your friends about your mother’s sex ed PowerPoints. It could always be worse.”

“Okay,” said Clarke, “so, for the sake of my sanity, and keeping my extremely delicious dinner from coming _right_ back up again, we’re just going to pretend that a brothel is a place people go to play chess.”

“Fine.”

“So you, and Dad, and Marcus. You all . . .”

“Played chess together. Yes. This is why I waited nineteen years to tell you.”

“And the way you feel about him now . . . was it like that, then?”

Abby thought about it for a moment, then finally shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Or, perhaps little, but we didn’t know it. We’d just gotten married, we were both still so high on each other, neither of us was thinking about anyone else. But there was very definitely a connection. We thought about him a lot over the years. When I saw him again in Las Vegas, it was clear he’d also thought a lot about us. The connection was still there. But your father had only been gone for a few months, and I wasn’t done grieving yet.”

“Did he want to . . . play chess with you then?”

“He was a perfect gentleman,” said Abby. “We spent a lot of our time in that penthouse just sitting on the couch and talking about you.”

Clarke appeared taken aback by this. “He knows about me?”

“Baby, of _course_ he knows about you.” Abby stared at her. “Why on earth would you think I wouldn’t tell him we had a _child?”_

“No, I know, I just . . . I mean, I know lots of guys think kids are a buzzkill, and if he was any other dude who just came onto you in a Vegas bar -”

“Do you really think,” Abby said to her seriously, “that I would waste my time with a man that shallow? When you’re the most important person in my life? Do you think your father could ever have cared for a man like that?”

“You’re right,” said Clarke, nodding. “Dad would never.”

“Dad would _never.”_

“Wait. Does he text you a lot?” Clarke asked suddenly. “Is this the guy that texts you? Where you get all like giggly and weird and sometimes hide your phone so I can’t see it?”

“Excuse me, I do not do _any_ of those things, but . . . yes.”

“So you’ve known this guy for over a decade,” said Clarke. “And you’ve been texting on the regular for like - when was that conference? Three years ago?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know you’ve gone out on dates with other guys since then?”

“Of course. I’ve never hidden anything like that from Marcus. There’s no reason to. I mean, he has no problem telling me about who he . . . plays chess with.”

“That’s because he’s a _professional chess player,”_ Clarke pointed out. “That’s his _job._ Those aren’t dates. You’ve been going out on _dates._ Not that many, but still.”

“Yes, but -”

“And he’s never _once_ said, ‘Abby, don’t go out with that guy, go out with me?’”

“No, but -”

“And he _just now_ , after _three years_ of text flirting, decided to call you up and ask you out for real?”

Abby finished the rest of her wine in one long swallow, sighed heavily, leaned back against the overstuffed green chenille of the sofa, and surrendered to the inevitable. 

“He did not actually call me,” she admitted, and then the whole story came pouring out.

She told Clarke about the town of Eden, and about the cult, and Brother Zechariah. She told her about the kids who had run away, about Harper and Octavia and the house in Salt Lake and the boy named Elias who had only just escaped last week. She told her about Bellamy’s idea for a sex education curriculum developed jointly by sex workers and medical professionals, how it had made her feel alive again and twenty years younger to think about how something she and Marcus made together could really and truly, without exaggeration, change or even save people’s lives. She told her about how Bellamy had waited for Marcus to call her, then given up and done it himself, because he suspected Marcus was afraid to push Abby until he knew more clearly how she felt, but this was important to Bellamy in a way that made Abby wonder about all the ways the adults around him, when he was young, might have failed him too, and whether he was trying to save other boys like him from having to learn things the way he had had to learn them, because there had never been anyone safe that he could ask. She told her about how Marcus had said it would probably be a fight, with the city council and the school board, so she was packing all her bitchiest power suits in the hopes that they could squeeze in at least a few meetings while she was there so she could start getting to know people, and how if this trip went well she would probably be back many times to continue the work.

When she finished, it was silent for a long time before Clarke spoke.

“Do you have any idea,” she said finally, “how long it’s been since I’ve seen you this excited about your job? Or this excited about _anything?”_

“Clarke -”

“I want you to go,” she said firmly. “I want you to go out there, and do this. Because you want to, because I can tell how excited you are about the chance to get into a city council chamber and throw some elbows and be a Power Bitch, which you never get to do anymore because you have to play nice with the hospital board now; but also because it makes me like Marcus better that he understands how perfect you are for this.”

Abby looked over at her daughter. This was a far, far more explicit blessing than she would ever have expected from Clarke, or dared to hope for.

“He wants to meet you,” said Abby. “And I want you to meet him. I want to figure out a way for him to be . . . a bigger part of my life. But it’s complicated.”

“I don’t blame you for not telling me you and dad played three-person chess,” said Clarke, followed by a dramatic barfing face, which made Abby laugh. “I still don’t like that he waited so long, though. You’ve been back on the market for over a year. He could have saved you a lot of boring OKCupid dates.”

“It’s complicated from his end too,” said Abby, unwilling to go into any further detail about the Bellamy situation, which would make the whole thing start to feel a bit too much like a soap opera. “And he’s also very conscious - perhaps too conscious, maybe - about the fact that I have a daughter, and that you might have feelings or opinions about your mother being in a serious relationship with someone who isn’t your father.”

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” said Clarke, “but I feel like if I had to choose, I’d rather have you be with someone who meant that much to Dad. So I’ll never have to feel like he’s off-limits to talk about.”

“Actually,” said Abby, “I can think of few things that would make Marcus happier than the chance to just sit there and listen for hours to you telling stories about your father.”

Clarke smiled at her. “You can stop giving me the hard sell,” she teased. “I already told you it was okay. You don’t have to keep trying to make me like him. I already decided I do.”

“He’ll be very relieved.”

“Are you going to tell him about this conversation?”

“Is that not okay?”

“I just don’t think you should do it over the phone,” Clarke advised her. “It sounds like you’re both still kind of feeling things out. Maybe just tell him that your daughter thinks you’re going on a work trip and wait until you get there to bring out the big guns and tell him that I know about him and you, and him and Dad, and that I want to meet him. That's a lot to dump on somebody in a text message. And you’ll be there in person so soon anyway.”

This logic seemed sound to Abby, who could not imagine that tactfully circumventing the topic of Clarke for another two weeks until she arrived at the Paradise could possibly cause any harm.

“I want to know what he looks like, at least,” said Clarke. “If I Google him will I see anything that makes me want to tear my eyes out?”

“No, the website is very tasteful.”

“What’s the place called again?”

“The Paradise Hotel.”

“A hotel called the Paradise, in a town called Eden,” said Clarke, pulling out her phone and tapping away at her browser. “Very Biblical.”

“A compelling draw for a sex-shaming fundamentalist cult, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah, these Daughters of Eden folks sound like real fun-ruiners. I wonder if they’re connected to the Sons of Adam at all.”

“The who of what?”

Clarke waved it off. “Another weirdo cult I read an article about once. Northern California or somewhere. The FBI got involved, I guess a couple people died. But they disbanded like decades ago and everyone scattered. Just the name sounded similar to me, is all. Oh, I found him!” She tapped on her phone and showed it to her mother. “This is him?”

Abby felt an embarrassing teenage flush sweep across her cheeks as she looked at the photo on Clarke’s phone. She hadn’t ended up on the staff roster page, with everyone’s meticulously art-directed black-and-white headshots, but had landed on the employee blog and found a photo of the staff on a Habitat for Humanity build. Marcus was wearing grubby jeans and a t-shirt, sawdust in his thick dark hair, looking over his shoulder towards Harper’s camera with a smile so wide it could light up the sky.

So many people who knew him, she reflected, knew only the carefully-curated exterior, seeing exactly what he chose to show. The perfect suits, the impeccable charm, that infallible perceptiveness, the way he could see even before you did exactly what you wanted and give it to you before you had to ask.

So few people who knew him knew he was this, too. Just a person, messy and complicated and generous and funny and kind. Real, in a way that polished sexy performer Marcus never was.

This was the Marcus Kane she really wanted.

“Mom?” said Clarke quietly, pulling Abby back to herself as she suddenly realized she’d been silently staring at the photo on Clarke’s phone for a very long time.

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you love him?”

Abby looked up, and met her daughter’s eyes. “I’m not sure I’ll know until I see him,” she said. “But I think there’s a very good chance that I do.”

"Do you think he loves you?"

"I don't know. I hope so. I need to go find out." She grinned at her daughter. "So you see," she added wryly, "why I kind of need that suitcase."


	15. Ubi Morata Fueris et Ego Pariter Morabor (“wherever you dwell, there also shall I dwell”)

**THREE YEARS AGO**

Abby glowered at him from the chair on the other side of the room, dark brown eyes flashing with a fury he’d never seen from her before. He felt himself instinctively shrink inward at the lethal sharpness of her tone, retreating half a step back towards the door, trying to disappear a little, trying to make himself small, then hating himself for the automatic reaction.

 _Abby is not your father,_ he could hear Niylah’s calm, rational voice in his head. _Anger is not the same as violence. You are not in danger here._

He was, however - this was already clear - in _huge_ trouble.

Abby waved the folder at him again. “Explain this,” she demanded.

“That’s the welcome packet,” he ventured hesitantly.

“It has a _concierge roster_ in it," she snapped. "And a _menu of services._ And tickets to every show, for _one.”_ She flung it furiously towards him as she rose from the chair; it just missed, and landed at his feet, though neither of them made any move to pick it up. “I mean, what the hell are you trying to tell me? _This_ is what you think I came here for? You think I wanted to go window shopping for a stranger to fuck? You’re sending hot girls in red lipstick up to my room? Marcus, what am I even _doing_ here?”

“I can explain.”

“Do it fast.”

“I had another packet all ready for you. I really did. It didn’t have a menu _or_ a concierge roster in it. And it had two tickets. And I was going to hand it to you myself.”

Abby eyed him warily. “So what happened?”

“I panicked.”

“Clearly.”

“And I might have . . . misinterpreted some things.” Abby raised an eyebrow at this, and said nothing, but seemed to be thawing slightly, which was an encouraging sign. “I owe you an apology. I know that. I’m so sorry. You came all this way, and I’m so glad you’re here, and it’s _completely_ my fault we got off to such a rotten beginning.”

“You owe Bellamy an apology too,” she pointed out. “I don’t think you thought through how offensive that assumption was. Or how hurt he must be, that you thought so little of him."

Marcus was surprised by this, and regarded her curiously. She had begun with a great deal of anger, and still had plenty left, but something seemed to have shifted; at least they were actually talking to each other. But it was a strange feeling, to see Abby already so decisively speaking up in Bellamy's defense. It brought a rush of emotions to the surface, so many Marcus couldn't identify them all. It was like she already belonged here, like the two people who meant the most to him were already connected, like she'd realized how similar they were. He'd so badly wanted Abby to like Bellamy, to _get_ Bellamy, and was so relieved she did that he barely minded the fact that she was taking Bellamy's side against him.

"Now, I know why _I'm_ pissed at you," she said. "Because when I walked in and you weren't there, I suddenly had no idea what the hell I was doing, why I packed a suitcase and flew thousands of miles to see you, whether I’d made a terrible mistake, whether I should turn around and drive right back to the airport. This was a huge, vulnerable thing I did, and you left me to stumble through it alone. And that made me feel like I don't even know anymore what I am to you, why I came here in the first place. That’s what you have to apologize to _me_ for. That's what you and I have to fix."

Marcus nodded somberly. “I understand that,” he said. “I'll do whatever it takes."

“What you need to apologize to _Bellamy_ for,” she went on pointedly, “is just as bad. But you're his boss, and you mean the world to him, which means he cannot call you out on this himself. So I'm going to.” She folded her arms and looked up at him sternly. “ _He’s_ the one who called me to bring me out here,” she reminded Marcus. “He knows I’m not just a hotel guest. He knows that I’m more than just a visiting medical consultant to you, and that you’re more than an excuse for a two-week vacation to me. And yet, apparently, according to the girl you sent to my room, you were convinced I brought him up here to fuck. Now, it’s bad enough that you thought I would just walk in, look around, and grab the first person I saw, and believe me, we are _not_ done discussing that. But it's also a hell of a slap in the face to Bellamy that _you thought he said yes to it.”_

Marcus swallowed hard. “Oh,” he said quietly.

She met his eyes, her gaze steady and wise and unrelenting. “It occurs to me,” she said, “how much there still is that I don’t know about you. About your upbringing, about your past. You tell me stories - you’re very, very good at telling stories - but that’s not always the same as telling a person who you are. And I’m seeing now, I think for the first time, all the ways in which you’ve still been playing a role with me, even though I know how hard you’re trying not to.” She took a small step towards him. “I get the sense that the real Marcus Kane - underneath all the layers you show to everybody else - has a hard time trusting people,” she said. “And I get that. I really do. But you need to understand how that hurts the people closest to you. The people who want to believe that, after all this time, they’ve earned the right to your trust.” 

Marcus looked away from her, cheeks flushing warm with remorse and shame. Every word she said to him was no more than he deserved, and the only hope he was holding onto was that she seemed less likely, now, to walk out the door than she had when she’d first hurled the folder at him.

“I don't think it occurred to you how devastating it can be to the other side of that lack of trust,” Abby went on quietly. “That you had so little faith in either of us. That you don't understand how much you _matter._ That you assumed we could casually betray you like that, without a second thought." 

She reached out, then, and put her hand on his arm, sending an electric current racing up and down his spine. She hadn’t touched him in three years.

“We’re not an _audience_ to you, Marcus,” she told him. “When you play a character, that character stops existing as soon as the lights go down. I think you’ve spent so much of your life on stages that you’re secretly afraid everyone forgets you exist the minute you leave the room.” When she looked up at him, there was something in her eyes that was almost warm. "You should give the people who care about you a little more credit than that,” she advised him gently. “And you should give yourself more credit too.”

It was silent for a long moment, after this. The moment was fragile, and it didn’t quite feel right, yet, to reach for her hand or her shoulder to touch her back; but her fingers resting on his arm were sure and steady, and when he took a small step towards her, she did not pull away.

“You’re right,” was all he finally said.

Abby raised an eyebrow, somewhat mollified by this. “Of course I’m right.”

“I really did spend like a week making you a way better welcome packet.”

“I believe you.”

“I had all these plans, I wanted to show you everything I’ve done with the place since the last time you were here.”

“That’s what I wanted too. For _you_ to show me. Not Bellamy. Or the hot girl in the black dress. They aren't who I came here to see.”

“I know there’s no excuse for it, and I’m happy to apologize to you as many times as you like in order to make it up to you.”

“Then I’m very glad we have two weeks.”

“It’s quite embarrassing already, in fact, the more I think back on it. I feel a bit like a teenager.”

“Well, you were acting a bit like a teenager,” she pointed out dryly. “I should know. I raised one.”

Marcus shook his head, running a hand wearily through his hair and thinking back over the events of the past hour with increasing self-recrimination. “I should have just gone out there myself,” he muttered. “I should have been an adult about it. Octavia is never going to let me live this down, she was watching me pace in my office all day like an absolute lunatic. I suppose I just . . . well, the second I saw you go over to Bellamy, I assumed the worst, and then I just panicked.”

Abby withdrew her hand from Marcus’ arm, all the blossoming warmth in her eyes instantly freezing over again, and took a step backward. Suddenly all those hesitant, tentative steps toward intimacy were erased as neatly as if they had never happened.

“I beg your pardon,” she said in a dangerously calm voice. “Did you say, you _saw_?”

_Shit._

“What the _hell,_ Marcus!” she exclaimed. “Were you _hiding_ from me?”

There was, of course, no possible answer to this, so he didn’t even try.

Abby moved another few steps away from him, pacing restlessly in front of the chair. “So what, you were watching me on the security cameras or something? Was this a _test?_ You made the blonde girl lie and then you were just _spying_ on me?”

“It wasn’t on the security cameras, it was through the office blinds,” Marcus offered, then immediately wondered why on earth he had thought that would help. Abby's exasperated eyeroll seemed to indicate she was thinking along the same lines. “I know how this looks,” he insisted. “But I can explain.”

Abby shook her head. “You’re lying to me about something, Marcus,” she said a little desperately. “And I can’t figure out what’s going on here. Because this doesn’t add up. All of this was bad enough when I thought you were in your office, on the phone, and by the time you were on your way up to see me, you thought I’d picked Bellamy instead. But now you’re telling me that you were already acting like a fucking crazy person, deliberately avoiding me, _before_ that. So now I don’t know what to think.” She dropped heavily down onto the edge of the bed, her posture weary, her eyes dark and sad. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Tell me now, before I unpack my suitcase. Before I decide if I'm staying. Do you . . .” She swallowed hard. “Marcus, do you not not want me here? Did I just read this whole thing completely wrong?”

“I want you here more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he said, with a sudden flare of intensity that made it abundantly clear he was telling only the truth.

So what happened?”

“What happened is that you walked in the door, and I realized how dangerous it would be for me to go anywhere near you.”

 _“Dangerous?”_ Abby repeated blankly. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t come back!” he blurted out before he could stop himself, and Abby went absolutely still.

The words landed in the center of the room between them with the force of an explosion, deafening noise followed by terrible silence, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Marcus took a reflexive step back, recoiling from what he’d just said as though it was a physical thing. He could not bear to look at her anymore, did not want to torture himself with her stricken expression, wanted only for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. At least it would be faster than attempting to traverse what now felt like approximately six hundred thousand miles of hardwood floor between him and his only exit.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, wrapping his arms around his chest, head bowed, trying desperately to make his body smaller, to disappear in front of her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I’ll go.”

“Don’t,” said Abby, in a strange voice, startling him into looking up at her. He had expected anger or tears, but saw neither. She was regarding him steadily, with a kind of thoughtful curiosity, as though she was trying very hard to work something out. 

“I should never have said -”

"Yes, you should,” she interrupted him, waving off his protestations. “It's clearly important to you. You have something you need to say to me, Marcus. Say it."

He shook his head. It didn’t sound like a challenge, or a threat - it sounded as though she really wanted to know - but he was baffled by her tone. 

What was she _doing?_ Why did she _want_ to hear something that might hurt her?

“I don't want to fight with you, Abby,” he said helplessly. “I don't want to bring up things that will just make us both feel shitty. We have so little time together. I don’t want to spend it arguing.”

Abby raised her eyebrow. “So your plan is to just pretend those words didn't just come out of your mouth?” she inquired mildly. “Just shove it all back down in the basement and lock the door? That’s what you do in relationships?”

 _No, because I don’t do relationships,_ he thought but didn’t say.

“You’re making it sound much more repressed and uptight than it actually is,” he said, a little irritably. “I just . . . don’t enjoy being angry. I don’t think that’s a crime. I don’t like having this feeling, and I _really_ don't like having it at you."

“Marcus,” said Abby, tilting her head and regarding him intently. “Have you _never_ had a healthy fight before?”

He stared at her. “That’s a contradiction in terms, I think.”

“No, it's not. It’s actually necessary to most relationships.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for it,” he said, a little bitterly. “My experience of people fighting is that it usually starts with tears and swearing, and ends with all the plates in the kitchen smashed up on the floor from being thrown across the room.”

“Oh,” said Abby, nodding, another piece dropping into place. “Okay. Yes. There it is.”

“There _w_ _hat_ is?” Her tone of serene confidence was faintly unnerving, reminding him for the first time since she’d arrived that she was a scientist, accustomed to gathering data and drawing conclusions. Which it appeared she was presently doing now, to him. 

“We only met your mother,” she ventured carefully. “No one ever introduced us to your dad. And whenever people mentioned him, there was something . . . uncomfortable in the way they said his name.” Marcus felt a wave of panic rise up inside his chest, threatening to knock him off balance. “That explains why you flinched like that when I swore at you before,” Abby went on thoughtfully. “And when I threw the folder. I’m glad I know now. I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

Everything about this felt wrong. Abby apologizing to _him,_ like it was _her_ fault he was weak, like it was her fault that no matter how many hours he spent in therapy he could never purge this building entirely of its most terrifying ghost, that he wasn’t strong enough to simply shut off his heart and forget . . . 

“I’m fine,” he said tightly. “Really, I am.”

“You said, ‘Because you didn’t come back,’” she reminded him. “That means something. I just want to know what.”

“It means I’m selfish. I was being petty, and I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

“Marcus, I’m not trying to trap you into _apologizing_ for it, I’m just asking you to _define_ it,” she said. “I think you’re hurt, and you’re pissed at me, and possibly at Jake, and either you didn’t realize it until just now or you’ve been shoving it down for twenty years. And you feel guilty, because you don’t like being hurt and pissed and you want to just wave the whole thing off, But you said it _to_ me, you said it _about_ me, which means it’s not an unfair question for me to ask you to explain what you meant, so we can talk it out.” She shrugged. “Maybe what we both need right now is to have one good, big, messy, air-clearing conversation. Even if it’s partly a fight.”

Marcus stared at her. “Why do you _want_ a fight?”

“Well, I don’t, particularly,” Abby conceded. “But I also never want you to feel like there are important things you can’t say to me. Even if you’re hurt and angry. _Especially_ when you’re hurt and angry.” 

Marcus looked around him, at the opulent hotel room he’d spent weeks making perfect for her - the candles, the flowers, the crisp white linens, the new pillows on the bed, the lush gardens and rolling lawns outside her window - and her words from before came back to him suddenly.

_You’ve still been playing a role with me, even though I know how hard you’re trying not to._

What she was asking from him was impossible.

“I can’t . . . do that with you, here,” he explained, a little desperately. “I can’t be that with you here. There are _boundaries._ The boundaries matter. When I'm in these rooms, I have to know where all the lines are. I have to be clear on who I am. I understand what you’re saying, I understand that you . . . want something different. You want a different Marcus Kane. But I can't be a different person in this room, just for you."

Abby regarded him wordlessly for a moment. “You’re right,” she said finally, with a brisk nod. 

“So you understand," he said. "Why we can't do this here."

“Absolutely," she agreed. "So we need a different room.”

Marcus stared at her blankly. “I - what?” he stammered. “No, Abby, that wasn’t -”

“No, you were right. I get it. It didn't occur to me before, but it makes sense. In these rooms, on this side of the hotel, you can only be one of two people - either you're a performer, or you’re a host. They’re both roles that you play. They’re both a very specific, highly-edited version of Marcus Kane, and that Marcus Kane can’t dredge up decades-old emotional baggage and yell at a guest. Even,” she added, “if it sounds like he actually kind of needs to.”

Marcus was still weighing whether, on the whole, it was more of a thrill or a terror that Abby seemed genuinely capable of reading his mind, when he noticed she’d picked up her suitcase and was making her way to the door. “Wait a minute,” he demanded. “Where are you going?”

“We need a different room,” she repeated. “I don’t need the champagne and rose petals, Marcus. I’ll go get back in my car and I’ll drive over to that motel down the highway and get a room there, and then we can, I don’t know. Have a drink. Go for a drive. Sit on my sketchy motel bed. Go to the mall. Take a walk down to the hardware store and browse the pest control aisle. I don’t care where we go. I just want to be someplace where you can talk to me.”

“Don’t stay at the motel,” he said immediately. “It’s too far away.” Abby didn’t say anything, but he thought he might - just might - have seen the flicker of a smile at this. “But we could -" 

He stopped himself suddenly, unable to finish the sentence, suddenly as shy and uncertain around Abby as if they were both teenagers.

"We could what?" she prodded him gently.

"We could . . . go to my room," he said hesitantly, unable to meet her eyes.

Abby took a step closer, and looked at him seriously. “Marcus,” she said in a quiet voice. “Am I the first person you’ve ever invited to your room?”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever had that’s just mine,” he explained awkwardly. “It isn’t much, but it’s . . . private, and it’s _real,_ and I’ve never -”

“Take me there,” she told him. “I want to talk to the real Marcus Kane, in the place where the real Marcus Kane lives.”

"Come with me," he said, and led her out the door and down the hall.

* * * * *

Abby carried her own bag and wheeled her own suitcase, despite his repeated offers to assist her, a wordless attempt to continue reminding him that the whole point of this was for him to stop playing the role of concierge. But it seemed a struggle to coax him into letting it go. He led them down the end of the hallway where her hotel room was located, through a door marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY," then up a small flight of stairs, into another hall which looked less like a glamorous, sexy resort and more like Clarke’s dorm. They passed doors with name signs on them that Abby recognized from Marcus’ stories. Harper had a string of fairy lights strung around her doorframe shaped like tiny white daisies, and her name on a glittery pink sign. Next door to her, Nate’s door had the same sign (clearly one of the two had purchased them as a matching set, leaving Abby to wonder which) and a small dry-erase board containing a nearly illegible note from either Raven or Roan - all she could make out was the capital R - demanding their twenty dollars back.

This was more like it, she thought, satisfied. The Marcus Kane who lived in this hallway would be a very different person than the one who paid visits to that honeymoon suite.

Their destination appeared to be the very last door on the left side of the hall, adjacent to another stairwell. His next door neighbor appeared to be Lincoln, Octavia’s boyfriend, whose door contained nothing but a simple wooden name plate, but the wall between their two doors seemed a kind of impromptu gallery; a wire strung with tiny binder clips hung against the white plaster, sketches on thick white paper hanging from each. They were all studies of different desert plants, remarkably skilled, and Abby found her steps slowing to take them all in. Lincoln was very good, almost as good as Clarke, and she wondered whether the labyrinthine tangle of circumstances around herself and Marcus would ever resolve to the point that the two of them might someday meet.

If she stayed, maybe tomorrow she would text Clarke pictures.

If she didn’t stay . . .

But she didn’t want to think about that.

“This is me,” said Marcus, rather unnecessarily, since his name was on the door - an elegant brass plate, with no other embellishments, though he’d taken advantage of the fact that he had no neighbors on the right side to arrange a few lovely large potted agave plants in terra cotta jars in the corner beside the stairwell. He looked at Abby for a moment, as though there was something else he wanted to say; but he seemed to think better of it, and instead simply pushed open the door and stood back, revealing a room which was so very obviously his that Abby thought she would have recognized it anywhere, even though she had never seen it before in her life.

It was a studio apartment, no larger or grander than the others had appeared to be; when the eighteen-year-old Marcus had first taken up residence here, he’d been the most junior of all the concierges, and his father believed he had merited no special treatment. But he’d come up in the world quite a bit since then, and this wing had undergone multiple remodels over the twenty-plus years since he had first moved his boxes of books and clothes downstairs from his parents’ residence, so he'd had both the time and the money to make it his own. 

The bulk of the apartment was a long rectangle bisected into two squares, of which the front was the living room and the back - against the exterior wall, where the windows were - was the bedroom. The long wall, on Abby’s left as Marcus swung the door open, was papered in a peculiar, undulating pattern of browns and peaches and corals and golds, in uneven hills and valleys, like an abstract desert landscape. Directly opposite the door was a Chesterfield loveseat of impossibly buttery, faded leather the color of sand. There was no coffee table, just a wide low ottoman, and a small tea table at one side where a book still sat splayed open. (Apparently Marcus liked Agatha Christie.) Through a rounded archway she could see a sleek kitchenette with gleaming appliances, black-and-white checkerboard floors, and a backsplash of pristine white subway tile. Adjacent to the kitchen, a door left slightly ajar revealed a spacious, equally spotless bathroom, fitted out in warm coppers and terra cottas, with accents of turquoise here and there and a windowsill full of succulents.

Behind the living room sofa, a massive open shelving unit - stacked with books and art and framed photos and unusual objects she longed to explore more later - served as a kind of room divider; through it she could see a neatly-made bed, with cool white linens beneath a rather incongruous homemade-looking quilt. (Vera’s handiwork, surely.) There was a guitar on a stand in the corner, several more well-maintained potted plants which were very obviously real, and a vase of colorful flowers on the nightstand.

It was elegant, and warm, and full of life and color, and no two things in it looked like they ought to belong together but somehow they all did.

It was a home.

It was _Marcus Kane’s home._

And she was the first person, in all his life, who had ever been invited to step across the threshold of it.

Marcus slept alone in this room. He had never brought anyone here, even for a cup of coffee or a drink or a visit. This was not a place where he received guests. So the flowers by the bedside did something to her; of all the details in the room, this was the one which affected her most profoundly. Because they were not part of a curated first impression, like the ones in her hotel room. They were not there to impress anyone. They were just there for Marcus, because he liked them, so he could have flowers next to his bed when he fell asleep and when he woke up.

This, she now realized, was the only room in the building - maybe the world - where he could finally be himself enough with her to say all the things he needed to say.

He let her wander around as long as she liked, taking it in, running her fingertips over tabletops and counters and the spines of books, and when she finally arrived back in the doorway and looked up to meet his eyes again she could see that they were nervous, uncertain, and bright with tears.

“Do you . . . like it?” he asked hesitantly.

“I love it.”

He let out a long, shaky exhale. “I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear you say that."

“It feels like you,” she said. “The _real_ you. Not the polished man in a suit standing behind the front desk. Not the performance. The person.”

Marcus looked down at himself. “I’m still wearing a suit,” he observed, a little wryly.

“I could step outside while you change your clothes, if you’d feel more comfortable doing this in jeans.”

“I still don’t know that I completely understand what we’re doing.”

“We’re having our first fight,” she explained cheerfully, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “It’s important to be comfortable for this.”

“Abby, what I said before,” he began, apologetically, but she shook her head.

“Nope,” she said, holding up a hand to cut him off. “You have something you wanted to say. We’re going to stay here until you say it. I have two full weeks and I don’t even know what’s on my schedule for tonight -”

“Since you threw it at me?”

“You had it coming.”

“I already admitted that.”

“Marcus,” she said, making her way over to the sofa and taking a seat, holding out her hand for him. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with, ‘You never came back,’” she said gently. “It’s obvious there’s something there.”

Marcus nodded heavily, letting out a deep, weary exhale, but didn’t sit just yet. He still looked palpably uncomfortable, and seemed unable to stop moving, pacing a bit on the warm hardwood floors of the living room, a palpable contrast to her patient stillness.

“I waited, at first,” he began quietly, and after that he couldn’t look at her anymore. “For such a long time. I thought, it can’t possibly be like this between three people without them feeling what I feel too. They _must_ have felt it. They _must_ know. I was so sure I would see you both again. I was so sure you would come back. But you never did.” He let himself drift over towards the sofa, and sank down wearily into it, but with a wide distance between himself and Abby. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and when he spoke it was as though he was speaking to the floor. 

He still could not look at her at all.

“The thing you have to understand,” he went on, “is that I’m not a permanent fixture in anyone’s life. Not really. People come in and out of this building every day, and I’m not particularly real to any of them. Not even the ones I fuck. They’re only seeing Marcus Kane the performer, like you said. They don’t come back here, to my room. Where my books are. Where I make my coffee in the mornings. Where I sleep. They see only what I show them, and none of it’s real, and then they leave again, and it’s over. And there’s a part of me I’ve never quite been able to stamp out, as hard as I’ve tried, that has always wanted something real. Not that it needs to be _instead_ of my work - I like my work - but alongside it. Someone real to come home to. But that’s hard to find, here.” He shook his head. “And what I eventually realized,” he went on, “was that that’s what I’d done with you and Jake. In my mind, I’d written myself into a story that turned out to have no place for me in it. I’d wanted to believe that you and I and Jake . . . that we could be real. Or that I could be real to you, the way you were with each other.”

“But we never came back,” said Abby quietly.

He nodded. “I told myself I was resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t see you again. That I was resigned to knowing I didn’t mean to you what you had meant to me. But still, you were with me, all the time. I wanted to make the Paradise a place you’d be proud of. A place you might want to come back to someday."

He looked up at her, just for a moment, and saw her eyes bright with unshed tears. But she didn't say anything; she knew him well enough to know there was more he wanted to say.

He looked back down at the floor again, collecting his thoughts. “When I saw you again, in that bar,” he murmured, “when you told me about Clarke and I realized _why_ it was you hadn’t come back . . . when you told me that you and Jake hadn’t forgotten me either . . . that part of me began to hope again. But I didn’t want to push you, and I was so afraid of making things too complicated with your daughter, or of asking you for more than you were ready to give me, that I didn’t even know how to begin, not even with anything as simple as just asking you out on an ordinary date. So I stalled. And I’m not sure how long I would have kept stalling if Bellamy hadn’t intervened. And so I thought, okay, if she’s here, if we’re in the same room, I’ll at least be able to figure out what she’s thinking, how she feels, what she wants . . . but I couldn’t ask.” He ran his hands through his hair. “My whole job is figuring out what people want,” he said, something a little desperate in his voice. “And I’m better at this job than almost anyone in the business. But I couldn’t ask you what you wanted. Because I was afraid of what you would say. I was afraid of what would happen if I was wrong.”

“Marcus,” she said, in a gentle tone which had both fondness and exasperation in it. “I’ve been trying as hard as I can for the past three weeks to tell you what I wanted. Maybe I was a little more shy about it, but on some level you must have known I wasn’t flying three thousand miles to have sex with Bellamy Blake.”

“But you didn’t tell Clarke about me,” he said, voice suddenly sharp and rough, and he rose abruptly from his seat like just being close to her pained him.

Abby stared at him, stunned. “What?”

“Everyone here knows about you. I didn’t even have to _tell_ them, they just . . . I don’t know. Kids figure things out. Well, Raven likes to break into my phone and Octavia apparently is better at reading upside down than I gave her credit for, and then I think one of them googled you -”

“Marcus -”

“They’ve been waiting to meet you. They dressed up for you. I’ve been making them absolutely crazy for the past three weeks trying to make every detail perfect because I wanted so badly to impress you, because I wanted you to be proud of me -”

“Marcus, I _am_ proud of you. I was already.”

“ . . . but you and Jake have a _daughter,_ somewhere out there in the world is a college student who’s half you and half him, and I might even have been right there, when she was conceived, which is such an extraordinary and miraculous thing,” his voice was racing like a runaway freight train now, “and it’s not that I don’t understand all the complications here, Abby, I do, and you’re an incredible mother, I know that without ever having met her, because I know _you,_ because I’ve seen the way you light up when you talk about her, but I didn’t realize until you walked in - until I saw you again, here in this place - until I realized how badly I still wanted it to be real - that the fact that you didn’t tell Clarke about me before you got on that plane must _mean_ something, and I was stupid to try and tell myself that it didn’t.”

“Marcus, listen to me,” said Abby, but he didn’t hear a word she said.

“I thought I could do it," he muttered, moving further away from her toward the door, pacing again, his voice shaky, rising in pitch and edged with desperation. "I thought I could be _professional,_ I thought I could maintain all my boundaries, I thought that I could be with you like it was before - if you wanted me - I thought it would be like it is on the phone, but real, I thought I could do it, but I _can’t,_ Abby. I can’t. _I can’t._ I can’t have no-strings-attached sex with you, I can’t sit next to you in the Red Room, I can’t be your concierge, I can hardly stand here and look directly at you, and I honestly don’t know if I can make it through two weeks of us working together." He turned back then and looked at her, eyes anxious and miserable, to find her staring at him in open astonishment. "If you need to leave, I understand," he said sadly. "But I can't do this, Abby. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just can't."

"Marcus -”

"I'm in _love_ with you," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I think I always was. I just thought I could control it. But I can’t. Not now that I’m looking at you. Not now that you’re here. It’s too much, I don’t know how to -”

"Shhhh," said Abby gently, crossing the room to take both his hands in hers, holding him still to keep him from bolting. "Marcus, hush for a minute.”

“No, don’t - it makes it worse, when you’re close to me, I want -”

“Honey, you need to take a deep breath, and let it out very slowly.”

“What? I - why?”

“To pull you back from the edge before you fall in," she said. "This is a panic attack.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “Deep breath in,” she ordered. “Then hold it for a second, and let it out.”

“I can’t -”

“Yes, you can. Deep breaths. You can do it.”

He took a long, shaky inhale, gasping a little at the end of it, and let it out in a whoosh. The next one was a little steadier, and the one after that, and the one after that. His eyes were pressed tightly closed, and his hands at his side were trembling, but eventually, the heaving of his chest began to subside.

“Are you okay?” she murmured. He nodded silently. “Then open your eyes, Marcus, and look at me.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want -” But he cut himself off, shaking his head a little as though to push his emotions away.

“What?”

“I want -”

“Say it,” she whispered. “I know what you want, Marcus. Say it, and then do it.”

“I want to kiss you,” he said helplessly. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You _know_ why, Abby.”

“We’re not in a hotel room,” she pointed out. “We’re in your apartment. And I’m not actually paying for this trip, so I’m not really a customer. And you also just told me you’re in love with me. I don’t think the rule applies here. Also,” she added, reaching up to rest a gentle hand on his cheek, “I did tell Clarke about you. I told her everything.” 

His eyes flew open wide at this, staring at her with such astonishment that she couldn’t help grinning a little. 

“Okay, not _everything,”_ she amended. “Calm down. No, my nineteen-year-old does not know every single pornographic detail of our whole relationship. I didn’t tell her anything dirty, so you don’t need to be shocked about it.”

“What did you tell her?”

Abby smiled at him, and reached up her other hand, cradling his jaw in her gentle touch. “I told her that I was pretty sure I was in love with you,” she said softly, “and I needed to fly out here to find out.”

Marcus swallowed hard. “Did you?”

“Yes. I did.”

“I want to ask you to say it,” he murmured. “Except . . . I’ve been nothing but honest with you, Abby, and there’s still one question you haven’t answered.”

“Anything.”

“You were right to ask for an apology, before,” he said. “And I’ll apologize to Bellamy, too. For the misunderstanding about why you brought him up to your room."

“Thank you.”

“But you still haven't told me,” he pointed out, “what he was _actually doing there.”_

There was a long, long silence.

“Oh,” she finally said. “You’re right. I suppose I didn’t.” She looked up at him, something strange and sad in her eyes. “I suppose I also owe you an apology,” she confessed. “I jumped to conclusions too.”

“What happened?”

“When I walked into the lobby,” she said, a little hesitantly. “When I walked in, and you weren’t there, my first thought was, _He’s already regretting this. He’s realized this was a terrible idea. He doesn’t really want me._ And your staff was all so . . . so stiff, and strange . . . the girl just lied right to my face, but seemed so uncomfortable about it, and the other three were just watching me, but trying so hard to pretend that they weren’t. Something in that lobby just felt wrong, but none of them would tell me what it was, and you weren’t there. But then I saw Bellamy - I recognized him, from your descriptions - and I figured at least _he_ would probably answer my question directly, because he might be the only person who would actually know. And I didn’t want to do it there, in the lobby, because I didn’t want to out him - or you - to the rest of the staff. I was trying to be respectful, and discreet. So I asked him, and he said no, and I believed him, and we were both quite ready for that to be the end of it, until the girl showed up and then I was furious all over again.”

Marcus went very, very still. “What did you ask Bellamy?” he murmured.

“The only thing that mattered,” said Abby. “I asked him whether you were having second thoughts about me being here, because you had feelings for somebody else.”

Marcus opened his mouth as though readying a protest, but she gently pressed her fingers to his lips. “Hush now,” she said. “Marcus, you don’t have to lie to me. Not about this, not ever, not about anything. Don’t tell me that there’s _nothing_ between you and Bellamy, because there always has been and it’s possible that there always will be, and I'm okay with that. I just need to know that we’re both meeting each other here on even ground. I’m here for _you,_ Marcus. I’m not here to fill an empty space left by Jake’s death. All I need to know is that you’re here for _me,_ not to fill the empty space that was left because a year ago you chose Bellamy but he didn’t choose you.”

“I promise,” said Marcus, in a voice of fierce, quiet intensity. “There is no one in this room but you and me.”

Abby smiled at him. “I like this room much better,” she said. “The other one is lovely, but a little too crowded. Too many different Marcus Kanes have come in and out of that door. This one is the only one that I want.” She reached up to caress the scruff of his beard with her gentle fingers, letting her thumb brush his lower lip, causing him to shiver. “You said you wanted something real, something permanent, and you never found it,” she said quietly. “I want it to be real too. I don’t want to be a tourist while I’m here. I don’t want the honeymoon suite, with the fancy bathtub and the champagne and rose petals, if it means that in there you can’t kiss me.” 

“Abby,” he groaned, eyes drifting closed, trembling beneath her lightest touch as though this was his first time, as though no one had ever touched him before in all his life. She drew his head down closer to hers, so close they could feel each other’s breath, hear each other’s racing hearts. He was wearing whatever cologne he’d worn when they met in Las Vegas three years ago, he smelled exactly like the Marcus who had immediately folded her into his warm strong arms the moment she told him about Jake, the Marcus who had spent the night in that bed beside her, the Marcus who woke a piece of her back up that she’d thought had died with her husband.

“I’ve been waiting half my life to know how it would feel to kiss you,” she murmured. “How much longer are you going to make me wait?”

“Hang on,” he said quietly, eyes still closed. “I just need a minute.”

“For what?”

“Because I still can’t believe this is actually happening,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “You’re the first - no one has ever . . .”

Abby felt a hot, heavy ache deep inside her chest, something cracking open inside her, and she realized for the first time what it really meant that he was forty years old and no one - not once in his life - had set foot in these rooms but him.

Abby had her grief, yes; but she also had all the decades that had preceded it. She had been with Jake since college - her entire adult life. He had been her husband, her partner, her best friend. She had carried and nursed and raised a child. She had lived for so long with two hearts beating in rhythm with hers. Losing Jake had taken away the person, it had silenced one of those heartbeats, but every spark and glimmer of love which had ever existed between them all was still there, inside the wife and daughter he left behind him. Love was a country Abby had learned to navigate years ago, Jake had taught it to her, and she was fluent now in its languages.

But Marcus had grown up in a different country.

Marcus had spent his whole life in this place, where everything felt like heaven but nothing was real, where he took care of other people all day long but there had never been anyone to take care of him - except his mother, who was gone. He had been through things that left shadows in him, secrets he carried deep inside some inner place to which she had not yet been admitted, and she did not understand them all; but the little she knew of her father, at least, was enough to fill in some of the gaps.

Marcus had lived a life which was very nearly the opposite of hers, a life with so little real love in it that even when it was right in front of him he couldn’t bring himself to trust it yet, as though he still believed if he opened his eyes she would be gone.

“The only thing I want, at the end of these two weeks,” she said to him, “is to tell you I love you enough times that you’ll finally believe me when I say it.”

“Abby . . .”

“Come here,” she said, cradling his face in her hands, pulling him down and down, until finally he was close enough that her lips could brush his, and they could do the one thing, in all their wild and hedonistic and debauched sexual adventures, that they had never done before.

* * * * *

At the feel of her mouth against his own, something inside Marcus snapped, and when he kissed her back it was with a kind of wild, desperate urgency. Abby melted into him, sliding her hands up to fist his hair, holding him to her, and they stumbled clumsily backward until she fetched up against the wall, his body pressed up against hers, imprisoning her deliciously between the heat of his skin - palpable even through the fabric of his suit - and that lush, undulating desert landscape at her back.

For a long, long time, they did nothing but breathlessly, desperately catch themselves up on two decades’ worth of lost kisses. All the kisses Abby and Jake had dreamed about, when they fantasized about Marcus in their bed. All the kisses Marcus had imagined, when he was longing for her return. All the kisses that had hung in the air between them when they were on the phone, and the kisses that had begun to simmer deep within their bones - despite the heartache, the misunderstandings, the anger - the minute Abby set foot in the lobby of the Paradise.

Marcus had never kissed anyone like this. In his whole life, he had never felt so untethered, or so free.

His hands drifted down from her jaw to her shoulders, from her shoulders to skim lightly down the gauzy fabric of her dress, gripping her hips lightly and moving his body closer to hers. She moaned into his mouth, parting her thighs to close the little remaining distance between them, and the small distant corner of his mind which could still form coherent thought reflected on how extraordinary it was that two entire decades had passed without dimming the heat or intensity between them. On the contrary, it seemed to burn brighter, now that he’d realized he was allowed to want all the things he’d never even known were possible before.

“Do you have anywhere to be?” she panted as he pressed rough, hot kisses into the side of her throat.

He chuckled. “You mean, do I have be hard again anytime soon.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he said. “If you’d checked your schedule, instead of throwing it at me -”

“I said I was sorry!”

“ . . . you would have seen that I didn’t schedule anything for either of us until tomorrow night. There’s a dinner in a few hours, but that’s optional.”

Abby pulled away to meet his gaze, her own eyes twinkling with laughter. “So the first Marcus was so sure of himself that he left his whole night open, in case I wanted to drag him straight upstairs to bed at four in the afternoon and then fuck him all night,” she said. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And then you got in your own head, and ruined it.”

“I said I was sorry.”

Abby laughed, and kissed him again. “What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“I’m performing in the Red Room,” he said. “Want to watch me fuck Harper?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

He smiled, kissing her mouth again and again. “You wouldn’t believe,” he whispered, “all those years ago, how hard it was to keep myself from doing this. I wanted to kiss you both so much.”

“We could feel it,” she said. “We wanted it too. I wanted it so much. Every time you were inside me, the way you would look at me, I always thought, _Just this once. Let him break the rule, just this once._ But you never did.”

“It isn’t against the rules now,” he said. “Not in here. Not if it’s real, like this.” He cupped her jaw in his hand and looked down at her with intense, serious eyes. “Tonight, when I’m inside you,” he whispered, “I’ll kiss you until you can’t breathe.”

Abby looked from Marcus, to the neatly-made bed, and back again, with a shiver. “And the dinner is optional, you said?”

“I can have Murphy leave a tray at the door. We don’t have to go downstairs if you don’t want to.”

“If I’m the first person besides you who has ever slept in that bed,” said Abby, bending over gracefully to unfasten her gold sandals and step out of them, tucking them neatly beside her suitcase, “then I really think we owe it to the bed to take the whole night and christen it properly.” She made her way past the sofa and the bookshelf to the little bedroom nook, turning back to watch Marcus dim the lights, loosen his tie, and toss his jacket on the sofa as he followed her. “I want to take my clothes off and not put them back on again until breakfast,” she said.

Marcus kicked off his shoes, yanked off his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said, and then his mouth crashed into hers again, backing her up against the windowsill behind her.

The next phase was clumsy and fumbling, punctuated by laughter - as they struggled to shed the remainder of their clothes while kissing - and the occasional irritated _“goddammit”_ from Marcus as first his belt and then the button of his right cuff refused to cooperate. But eventually, clothes strewn about the otherwise fastidiously tidy bedroom, they found themselves skin to skin beneath those cool white sheets, and the laughter died away.

“Why does it feel so different?” he whispered, as he kissed his way down her neck to the spot in the hollow between collarbone and shoulder that he remembered always made her shiver. “I’ve been doing this since I was eighteen, why does this feel like the first time?”

“Because it’s real,” she murmured, stroking his hair. “Because you’ll never have to hold back any parts of yourself from me ever again.”

“This time, you’re the expert, then,” he said. “You did this for sixteen years. You know how to have sex and love together. I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’ll teach you,” said Abby, gently taking hold of his shoulders to guide him onto his back, and move on top of him. “I promise, I’ll make you an expert by morning.”


End file.
